An Unconventional Proposal
by adlersdaughter
Summary: BEING REWRITTEN...Holmes is indeed an unconventional man. When Watson discovers something that may prove otherwise, it changes his perspective of his deceased friend entirely. Please read and review...feedback and suggestions are much appreciated!
1. Smallest of Smiles

_A clip taken from the __**Daily Mail**__—6 January 1940_

The death of Dr. John H. Watson in the previous year sent shockwaves throughout the medical and literary communities of this great country. His death remains a sorrowful subject in the hearts and minds of all yet his very death has also created a tantalizing mystery that his companion Sherlock Holmes would no doubt investigate—if it were not for the fact that it concerns the great detective himself.

Soon after the good doctor's death, his private vault at Cox and Co. was opened. Many items of notable interest including several unpublished stories and souvenirs no doubt from his many adventures with the famous detective have been discovered in its depths. However, there is one particular article that has seized this writer's attention.

A photograph of considerable age has been discovered—what appears to be a wedding photograph to be exact.

The participants in this photograph include a young Sherlock Holmes dressed in a dark suit and an unidentified young lady dressed in a white gown. Mr. Holmes has a known aversion towards women yet this photograph provides us with titillating questions nevertheless. Was Holmes married once before? Did this woman spurn his love and is the very reason for his perpetual bachelordom? And most importantly, _who exactly is this woman?_

A futile trek to Sussex only created more questions. Still in fine form for his age, Mr. Holmes was found hiking around the Downs. The renowned detective treated my questions regarding the photograph with slight annoyance. It was as if this writer's presence was akin to a bee buzzing in his ears, so to speak.

However, there was one question that the man vaguely answered.

"Mr. Holmes, was she your match?"

He had been bending over to inspect a certain plant specimen when I had asked. His aquiline profile turned towards the waters of the Atlantic in thought before answering. The elderly detective slowly stood up from his spot and turned his keen eyes towards me.

"No…but in very few aspects she actually may have exceeded me."

The smallest of smiles emerged on his lips and bade me good day as he trekked up a hill and away from our field of vision.


	2. Ambidexterity

A BRIEF NOTE TO THE READER  
_Dr. John H. Watson M.D._

I will tell you, reader, succinctly that this story is not mine to tell. If one were to tell me of the sensational nature of this tale, I would immediately dismiss it as a work of fiction. However there is pressing and singular piece of evidence that seems to dismiss any doubts and after much research (on my own and Conan Doyle's behalf) we have found no evidence that would prove this story wrong.

What I _can_ relate to you however is how I received this quaint story.

It was a cold winter's day in the year of 1893, during Holmes's hiatus though during this time I thought he was dead, and I had just returned from my various appointments through the city. Winter had just arrived on London's doorstep and with its cold and icy winds it brought various maladies and illnesses singular to the season.

Life had receded into an unceasing monotony tinged with grief. Holmes had plunged to his _death_ at the Reichenbach Falls in the previous year. The following year I endured the untimely death of my dear wife; she was walking across the street when a hurtling street cart ran her over. She managed to survive but died days later due to the severity of her injuries. I held her hands and stayed by her side in those final days of her young life. Mary will remain with me in my heart and her spirit, tucked away to my own solitude.

Her loss had compelled me to work myself to the verge of exhaustion so as to distract my grieving soul. Conan Doyle would often come and visit and help ease my grief yet he also compelled me to start writing once more, which would also serve as a distraction yet it also helped me remember much happier times—my adventures with Holmes. From this cathartic writing emerged _The Hound of the Baskervilles_. However when one gives a mouse a cookie, it wants a glass of milk—Conan Doyle wanted more stories.

It was after such a visit that left me both frustrated and exhausted that I received the package. The maid Elizabeth reported that during his visit a package arrived and was awaiting my perusal in my study. I thanked her and went to my study to inspect the package.

The package sat on my desk, not too large and not too small. Quite unassuming, considering the details that lay within. Oddly, there was no return address on the package. When I opened it, I discovered a handwritten manuscript of some length and a photograph, which was the first thing that seized my attentions.

The photograph was yellowed with age and its edges slightly bent with wear. Admittedly, it was the woman in the photograph that I first focused on. She was dressed in what appeared to be a wedding gown. Her hands sat demurely on her lap where on her left hand was a simple yet elegant diamond ring. She looked towards the camera with light-colored eyes set in pale visage and framed by dark hair (oh how I wished a camera would be able to take colored photographs!) The woman's appearance otherwise was not particularly striking, not a rare beauty comparable to the likes of Irene Adler. However upon further inspection, I saw the reason why I was initially drawn to her instead of the groom. I could tell even from the photograph that those light eyes gazed back at her audience brimmed with a combination of intelligence and mischief while her mouth possessed a smile that would make Da Vinci's _Mona Lisa_ envious. The woman hid a secret within that smile and was taunting me ever so slightly with it.

I turned my attentions now to the groom who wore a dark suit and stood rigidly in perfect posture. The face—when I saw the groom's face I nearly cried aloud in shock. I knew that thin and angled face so well. Though the face was much younger than I was familiar with, the groom was none other than my dear friend Sherlock Holmes.

The photograph altogether confounded me. It rocked the rigid perceptions that I had of my friend. There were many questions that I had yet I very well could not ask the photograph to answer them. I placed the photograph down and my eyes fell onto the forgotten manuscript. I took the manuscript into my hands, which was written in a simple and spidery hand, flipped randomly through its pages, and began to read.

* * *

I start my story in the autumn of 1882, where the trees around Oxford donned the same crimson and gold that I now see around my home. Oxford was in the midst of its Michaelmas term and the ancient and hallowed halls were teemed with students in pursuit of knowledge and education.

Friday is every student's favorite day. However, if you attended Professor Andrewes's history lectures on Fridays, the day became even better. Well, I may be a tad biased considering that Professor Andrewes was my father yet I must add that many of his students seemed to concur with my opinion.

The workload for the scholarly scholars at Oxford was (and is) intense and immense. Passing through the hallowed corridors, I would often see telltale signs of anxiety ranging from the humorous (a student's hair standing up on end) to the more serious (another student had to be sent to the infirmary in response to the stress of his impending exams). On certain Fridays—depending on my father's predilections and the overall behavior of his class—a student was able to unburden their loads when they entered the lecture hall. On this day, my father would freely lecture on anything that the students wanted…related to history of course.

I was sitting in one of these lectures as my father looked over the students as a shepherd does his sheep. At the rostrum, a pitcher of water stood next to an empty glass. The students jabbered on as they took their seats.

I sat separate from the boys in a chair reserved just for me close to my father's desk and separate from the others. It wasn't because I misbehaved. It was the boys that misbehaved.

"Oi James! Any plans for the weekend?"

"Are you barmy? I've got exams all week next week—"

"I heard that you and that girl from the pub had a blast last night…"

"Budge up, Davy, move your fat arse so that I can sit!"

"Hello, Miss Andrewes,"

I turned toward my greeter and discovered that it was the young and ambitious Aidan Keating. He twiddled his fingers in that odd wave of his and I smiled.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Keating," I greeted him in return.

He looked as if he were about to continue a conversation when a group of his friends had come from behind him, elbowing him and snickering as if they all had a secret. Aidan shrugged his shoulders sheepishly as his mates pushed him along to their seats, his bright blue eyes smiling back at me.

My dad had been pacing back and forth, watching his students funnel into the lecture hall. He glanced at his pocket watch and headed toward the rostrum. Reaching the rostrum, he poured himself a glass of water and drunk it. As soon as the glass touched his lips, the entire congregation of young and rowdy male students instantly silenced themselves—a rare feat. They knew that once that water had been consumed that the class was ready to start. My father put down the glass with a clink and looked at his students. In that peculiar combination of a Boston and Yorkshire accent, he began to speak.

"Well, lads, what do you have for me?"

A hand shot up in the air in the back row.

"Yes, Davy, what do you got?"

"Professor Andrewes, is there any chance that I can court your daughter?"

Ripples of laughter filtered through the auditorium while shades of red bloomed over my face. I smiled awkwardly and laughed despite myself. Father simply stood at the rostrum silent, looking down at the floor and sighed with exasperation. I watched Davy's grin fade into an anxious smirk—he knew he had crossed the line and would probably be in a great deal of trouble.

As the laughter began to die down at this realization of my father's possible fury (which was not a pleasant sight), my father looked towards Davy with those serious green eyes we both have and replied, "See me after class."

My father gave me a wink as the class roared with laughter. He raised his hand into the air as he attempted to rein the class back into the lesson.

"Seriously, lads, a question, a question!" He yelled over the laughter. He waited until the class became quieter before continuing. "It must concern the subject material of course. No more jokes from the peanut gallery up there." He scanned over his pupils and saw a hand raised near the front. He walked over to the hand's owner. "Mr. Keating! What do you got for me, my boy?"

"You said at the beginning of term that Thomas Jefferson was the reason you became interested in the study of history. Why he and not someone like say, Admiral Nelson?"

"Nelson's a fine man to become interested in if your interest is military history." He began, walking back towards the rostrum. He glanced at the bust of Jefferson sitting on his desk, a replica of the famous Houdon bust. Amusingly, he used it as a hat stand and placed his bowler hat atop the late President's head. "Jefferson on the other hand…Jefferson is an enigma. Every decision corresponds and clashes with his personal philosophy. He is an interesting man to study because there is so much that he left behind yet so little for us to analyze. You see, I'm contradicting myself. Let me explain further …"

And there goes my father on and on. I could listen to that man for hours. The trumpets for Judgment Day could sound and he would still be talking about the merits of Thomas Jefferson. Father wrapped up his lecture on Jefferson a few minutes later—he hadn't spent that much time on him as I thought—or would have like him to. He walked up the rows where his students sat.

"I think Mr. Keating poses an interesting question. Who is the most interesting person in our history? I want to hear from you boys because I'm pretty sure that you are all sick of hearing this windbag." He pointed at himself and the students chuckled. When no student raised his hand, he surveyed the faces of the crowd and I knew from the sly look on his face that he was about to tap into that sadistic streak that every professor must have: he was to pick a person randomly. Suddenly he pointed at a thin looking young man. "Ah, it seems we have a visitor in our class. Mr. Holmes! Let us hear your opinion."

Mr. Holmes lifted up his head and without so much as a moment's thought he simply said, "The Roman Emperor Nero,"

I sat up in my chair, both bewildered and amused at his answer. My father's reaction seemed the same. Running his hands through his graying hair, he asked Mr. Holmes why.

"Well, I'm curious to know what song he played as Rome burnt down around him."

And that was my first acquaintance with Sherlock Holmes and those feelings of bewilderment, amusement, and later fury he provoked in me that day would continue on.

* * *

"So should I tell Mum that I found myself a suitor?" I said as I watched the last of the students exited the lecture hall.

My father chuckled softly as he erased the scrawls he had written on the chalkboard during his lecture. "I hardly think that your mother would think David Wendell would be a suitable suitor." He wiped the chalk residue off of his hands and retrieved his hat from its normal position: atop Jefferson's bust. Placing it upon his head, he pointed over at the mess of papers upon his desk. "Charlotte, dear, do you think you can gather up my papers and put them into my bag?"

"Of course," I said as I began to stand up. Almost immediately upon standing, I stumbled causing my father to sprint towards me with a concerned look etched into his wrinkled face. With a sigh of frustration and aggravation, I assured him that I was quite all right. "I'm fine. I just lost my footing, that's all."

"Are you sure, Charlie? It could have been the—"

"No!" I said a tad too firmly that I had intended to. I softened my voice for my next reply. "It's not that, not that at all. If it were, I would tell you or Mum if it were." I cleared my throat and changed the subject. "Now, let me gather up your papers so we can go sit in the quad with the other students."

Father eyed me wearily and then proceeded to clean out the erasers. _Damn legs_, I thought to myself, as I proceeded to file his papers into his bag. I gave him his bag and he gave me a kiss on the forehead for reciprocity's sake and we headed outside. Several of father's students—both past and present—and some of his colleagues stopped us in the hall and struck up a conversation with my him while I stood at his side, politely waiting until we could proceed again.

We finally managed to make our way towards a spot on the lawn, which was littered with students walking with purpose or merely relaxing between their classes. Great Tom's bell greeted us as we sat down on the grass and announced the hour. Father took off his jacket and gave it to me to use as something to sit on. I accepted the jacket and sat down upon it, gazing up at the clouds and trying to decipher any shapes within them.

"Your birthday is coming very soon."

I turned my attentions back down to the earth. "Another year has passed. I am in a much different situation than last year."

"Yes, a lot has changed." My father agreed with a grave nod. He cleared his throat and changed the subject—it seems I stole that mannerism from my father. "Well, it would seem that it has changed for the better and let us pray that it will stay that way. Now, for more important matters," he cracked his knuckles as he watched several students pass by. "What do you want for your birthday?"

I laughed as my fingers were tickled by the freshly cut blades of glass. "The same as usual would be suitable."

"Another book?" Father said, his hands shooting up to his hair and making gestures as if he were about to pull all of his grey hair out. A genial smile came upon his face. "I'm sure I'll manage to find something. You sure can put your father in a predicament. Wherever will I find a book?"

"Professor Andrewes!"

We both turned around and saw a trio of students heading towards our direction. They were from Father's previous lecture: Aidan, Davy, and Mr. Holmes. Aidan was first to approach us, followed by the others. He bowed slightly towards my father, who in turn tipped his hat.

"Would you mind if I—well, we—joined you, Professor Andrewes?"

"No, boys, not at all. Please take a…" he observed his surroundings and said, "Pull up some grass and plant yourselves." As the boys sat themselves down, he asked them all, "How are your studies going? I hope that your noses aren't kept too close to that grindstone. You fellows are too young to be so serious. All work and no play make Jack a dull boy."

"My name's not Jack, Professor." Davy quipped as Aidan chuckled and Mr. Holmes rolled his eyes.

"Yes," Father acknowledged the fact. "However, judging from your last examination, you seem to be all play and no work, Wendell." His eyes turned towards the only member of the company who was not laughing. "So, Mr. Holmes, I hoped you do like today's lecture and plan on stopping by on other occasions. Professor Ellis has been telling me of your scientific prowess. He thinks that you'd make a fine scientist or doctor someday."

"I wouldn't want to limit myself, Professor." Holmes said, his grey eyes looking at my father and myself. "I have other interests that draw me as well."

"A modern day Renaissance man," I mused as I pulled out a book from my father's bag. "It's admirable, Mr. Holmes, but I would have to say that a jack of all trades is a master of none."

Holmes gave me a wry smile and was about to reply when Davy shoved himself back into the conversation.

"Why do we keep talking about a man named Jack?"

Aidan groaned and punched Davy in the shoulder. "Stop being such an idiot, Wendell."

"Jesus, Aidan that hurt!" Davy groaned, rubbing his shoulder and tried to punch Aidan back who easily swatted it like a fly.

"Don't curse in front of Miss Andrewes!" Aidan said, signaling me. "Just do us all a favor, Davy, and shut it."

"Sorry, Miss Andrewes," Davy apologized.

"Told you not to say anything anymore, you idiot." Aidan sighed while Holmes shook his head at his stupidity.

"Boys, boys," I said in an amused tone. "It's quite all right. While we're among friends, lads, let's drop the formalities and Charlotte will do just fine. Now Mr. Holmes, would you please continue?"

"Yes, before I was rudely interrupted by the oaf next to me," Davy made a face at Holmes and was about to make a rude gesture when he remembered my father's presence. "I intend to master all of my skills as you intend to master the contents of the Bodleian Library." Seeing the shocked look upon my face, a smile slowly appeared on that angled face. "You are wondering how I could possibly know such a thing."

There was an arrogance tinged in that voice that had begun to irk me. "You most likely have seen me amongst the many bookshelves, Mr. Holmes."

"Perhaps," he said lightly, his grey eyes boring into me. I felt as if I were a specimen of some sort being examined. "Yet I have not met you personally before or seen you. I would remember that red shade of hair since it's very unique. Today is the first day that I have made your acquaintance, Miss Andrewes, so your hypothesis is incorrect."

"Oh come on, Sherlock," Aidan said, giving me a look that this was so typical of Holmes. "Stop showing off and just tell her."

"Oh very well," Holmes sighed in a begrudgingly way as if everything was so obvious. "I merely noticed that the book you carry has a minute stamp on its binding that indicates that the tome came from the Bodleian Library."

It was obvious but of course, I kept quiet. My father was the one that spoke on my behalf.

"How absurdly simple," he said as he looked at the stamp on the book. "You have quite an eye there."

Holmes bristled with pride. "Well, gentlemen, the answers are all there if one merely looks for them."

The prideful look on his combined with the arrogance dripping in his voice was quite annoying. "Well, Mr. Holmes, seeing as you're so sure of yourself when it comes to my daily habits, what else can you see that is so _absurdly simple_?"

As sharp as he was, I'm very sure that Holmes felt the irritation in my voice and did not reply at first. Aidan, who was seated next to me, nudged me gently and gave me a wary look as if to say, "You have no idea what you are asking." I raised my eyebrows and Holmes took a deep breath and began.

"I'll take you up on that challenge, Miss Andrewes." Behind me I heard Aidan groan. "Judging from your height sitting up, I'd say that you are a little south of six feet…I would say around five feet nine or ten inches. That red hair you have is no doubt from your mom—considering your father has a head of black hair—while your height and your eyes are from your father." My father was around a tall man perhaps around six foot four and he chuckled at this information as it was very true. "Miss Andrewes, that bracelet you wear tells me that you are eighteen years old, the engraving glinted at me briefly in the sunlight, and that your birthday will be in the next fortnight.

"I also see that you are a musician." The men looked at Holmes bemusedly and he sighed as if it were painfully obvious. "The ends of your fingers tell me so." I immediately cupped my hands into fists to cover my musician's finger ends. "Piano, no doubt, as an aristocratic young woman of your nature would not be allowed to play the violin—"

"True enough!" My father exclaimed as he interrupted Holmes. Holmes turned his unceasing gaze towards my father and gave me a brief respite. "However, I will have you gentlemen know that it is not I that does not allow her to play the instrument. Her mother is the one who will not let her play. She believes that the violin would disfigure her face." He tapped his own chin. "Thinks it would cause unsightly calluses."

"Yes, that actually gave me slight trouble for that particular trait I just pointed out is common between typists and musicians. However, seeing as you are fairly wealthy, Miss Andrewes would not need to work so she would be a musician. Continuing onwards," Holmes turned his gaze back to me. "You are ambidextrous. You are able to write with both your right and left hands yet you choose to write with your right hand."

"How can you tell, Holmes?" Aidan asked.

Without even asking, Holmes took his hands out of my lap and looked them over. He only said, "You see, Keating, you'll note the calluses on her left and right ring finger. They are both in the same position on the finger. However, Miss Andrewes, why do you choose to write with your right instead of your left? I would estimate, judging by the size of the calluses that you had written with your left most of your life and just switched recently."

At that moment, I felt myself blanch and wrenched my hands away from Holmes abruptly. I cleared my throat and said in a would-be chipper voice "Well, Mr. Holmes, I think you got everything about me. Why don't you proceed with someone else?"

Holmes, clearly absorbed in the puzzle, did not hear me and proceeded to question me. "Now, why would you decide to switch how you write?"

"Just a passing fancy…to see if I could actually do it." I answered, reaching for my book and grasped it tighter and tighter. His eyes followed my hands and he eyed them curiously. I looked towards my father to try and make him stop his student but he was currently preoccupied by a conversation by a visiting professor. Damn it all.

"Tighten your grip with your left hand," I looked down, knowing I could not do it. His eyes turned toward my left leg and it was almost as if he knew. "You limp on your left side, don't you?" I still did not say a word. "I see, it fits altogether now…your father's absence the past year, the weakness in your left side, your voraciousness for books bordering on bibliophilia—"

I stood up and before I could even control myself, I began to rant.

"Well, Mr. Holmes, do you know what I think? I think that you're mastering every possible skill because you have no idea what to do with your life. You also think that by filling yourself up with knowledge will make you feel better than everyone else because you feel inadequate yourself. Now why is that Mr. Holmes? You feel the need to distract yourself from your own shortfalls by observing every minute detail you have about that person and try and smash them apart so someone else won't do the same to you. Mr. Holmes, I'm sorry to say that this experiment was not at all fun but I have better things to do than be dissected like a frog."

My father and his colleague had stopped their conversation in the midst of my rant and were looking at me with some concern. By then, I could not control the tears that were forming in my eyes and turned around quickly to run away. Of course, to make matters much worse, I tripped and nearly fell flat on my face. My father made a move towards me but I had recovered quickly enough and ran away from that group of peers who were most likely judging me.

And of course, to run away from the blunt honesty of Sherlock Holmes.


	3. Don't You Dare Pity Me

**_I just want to thank you all for reading my story once again. I forgot how much fun this was. Please leave more reviews and tell me what you guys think. Thanks!

* * *

_**

It is amazing how quickly and irrevocably one's life can change. For me, it all started with a fever.

It was late August of the previous year; I woke up one morning and felt as if I had been dunked in a bucket of ice water. My mother had placed her hand against my burning forehead and declared that I was quite sick and needed to stay in bed. She summoned Josephine to bring up some hot soup for me as she plumped up my pillows.

"Serves you right for sleeping with your windows open," she teased me as she tucked a stray hair behind my ear. "Some rest shall do you some good. Now drink your soup."

I followed her advice and stayed in bed; I spent much of the time with my nose in a book and drank more soup than I ever want to drink again. The fever dissipated almost a week later and life returned to some normalcy. However, all was not normal; I started to notice that my neck and back soon felt as if they had been replaced with wooden boards. It was not painful, it merely felt uncomfortable. I later reported my discomfort to my father during dinnertime. He thoughtfully chewed his food as I told him.

"Well," he said as he took a drink of wine. "Perhaps your sleeping positions are causing your stiffness. Try sleeping in another fashion and we shall see if the stiffness goes away."

The next day, I felt an odd tingly feeling in my left leg. I merely summed it up to my father's hypothesis again and continued on with my activities. Later the same day, however, I was trying to open the door to my room with my left hand but for some odd reason, it felt weak. I rubbed my left arm and tried again but I could not open it. Unlike the fever and my leg, this could not be explained as easily as the others. A trickle of fear shot through my body as I realized that everything was happening within days of each other. However, I decided to suppress these feelings. _It could just be a mere coincidence..._

Denial could only last for so long.

I was walking downstairs when I took a tumble. Fortunately, I was close enough to the bottom that I did not injure myself. That was the only optimistic part of this moment. I slapped my left leg in a teasing way as if to punish my own clumsiness but I did not feel the sting of the slap. I tried getting up and when I put my weight on my left leg, I fell back down. Back on the floor, I slapped my leg again. Nothing. I pulled up my skirt and pinched as hard as I can. No pain. Something was seriously wrong. I became hysterical, continually slapping my leg harder and harder and pinching it. I started to hear someone scream as I tried scratching my leg. Tears began to blur my vision when I was hoisted onto my feet by a pair of strong arms.

"Charlotte!" James yelled and promptly smacked me. It was only then that I realized that it was me who had been screaming.

Seeing that I could not stand without his support, he allowed me to place my full weight on him. I managed to tell him through blubbering sobs what had occured as we hobbled up the stairs together. He placed me in my bed just as Mum ran into my room, wondering what was the matter. James calmy reported what had happened, fetched his medical bag, and started to determine what was happening to me. Mum began to fuss, which only heightened my already frayed nerves.

"Mum," James evenly said through gritted teeth. He removed the stethoscope from his bag and placed each end in his ears. "You are only aggravating Charlotte with your fussing. I understand your concern but she is already terrified. Send for Dad, he should be here right now. He needs to be here right now...and if you could send for the family doctor as well. I need a second opinion."

Later that night, the family doctor conferred with James about what they both had found. I do not think that James needed a second opinion; he just wanted someone to possibly disprove him. Mum sat at the foot of the bed and bit her nails to the quick while Dad held onto my left hand, it too now robbed of any feeling. My eyes were listlessly staring at the ceiling when James gently broke the news.

I was diagnosed with polio.

* * *

My limbs were no longer paralyzed but a part of me still remained in that state. I sat by the River Isis and watched the punts cross the murky waters. The sound of the river and the green of the grass managed to calm me down, but I was still stung at the abrasiveness and unconcern that Holmes displayed as he pried my life open for people to see. 

A sniffle escaped me as I drew up my knees to my chin. I regained the feeling in my leg but my mobility on that side was now limited. It was the same with my left arm. I now walked with a limp. It was not these conditions that disheartened me; it was the way the disease wreaked havoc on my life. The limping and the diminished capacity for my left arm I could tolerate. It was the constant stares and whispers about my _delicate_ condition that pierced my heart. It was the knowledge that no one would marry a crippled young woman that stung.

The rustling of grass from behind me caused me to whip my head around. Two figures stood there.

"Who's there?" I asked while I attempted to wipe the tears from my eyes.

"Charlotte, it's Aidan. Are you all right?"

I did not answer as I stood up and approached them. Upon closer inspection, I saw that his companion was Holmes. _Damn him, he was the last person I wanted to see_. Aidan quickly began to talk in a calming manner; he saw my eyes staring daggers at Holmes and Aidan clearly did not want another argument to occur.

"We've been looking everywhere for you. It was your father that suggested you would be here. Says it's one of your favorite places."

"It is," I replied in a cold voice. My eyes slid towards the stationary figure of Sherlock Holmes. "What brings you here, Holmes? Still want to finish your dissection?"

"My dear Miss Andrewes," He began to say in a somewhat patronizing tone. "I would just like to say that you are the one who challenged me to deduce more about you." There was not even a hint of an apology in his voice.

"Are you suggesting that I would be stupid enough to allow myself to get into a situation that would be harmful to me?" I said as my voice rose in anger. "Pardon my language, but damn you!"

"Holmes, can't you just apologize?" Aidan pleaded as he grabbed my arm and stopped me from walking away.

"I apologize for my abrasiveness," he promptly stated at Aidan's request. "Though…the way you're acting, however, suggests that I am correct"

I could not believe it; my mouth hung agape in furious disbelief. "You really want to know if you're correct? Fine, you're right. I was sick with polio last year. Are you happy?"

Holmes merely buried his chin into his chest while Aidan looked at me with that ever so familiar look of pity. No matter the different people who I came across, the expression of pity always looked the same.

"That is all I needed to know," Holmes finally said. "I must say that I am honestly sorry. I have a rather nasty habit of disregarding other's feelings in the midst of my deductions."

I sighed, exhausted by my emotions and from the distance I had walked from Christ Church to the Isis. "My father's probably looking for me. I should be going."

Aidan offered me his arm. "Take my arm."

I looked at his arm for a moment and was about to speak when Holmes supplied the sentiments I was about to voice.

"She is not going to take your arm, Keating. She will want to walk on her own."

"I'll be fine, Aidan." I assured him, politely declining as I began to walk.

However, Aidan still insisted until I became quite incensed and finally cried, "Don't you dare pity me!" I began to walk at an even faster pace to prove that I could do without his arm.

"I told you, Keating," Holmes smirked.

"Don't think that just because you apologized that everything will be all right, Holmes." I said over my shoulder.

"No, not at all," Holmes retorted lightly. "Why would I ever think of such a thing?"

I stopped and looked back at him. His face was impassive and those grey eyes gave me nothing. He merely walked past me and we continued to make our way back to Christ Church.

* * *

"Firecrackers, Charlotte! I nearly had a heart attack trying to find you." 

Though still upset, I could not help but laugh at my father's strongest curse word. It was clearly a remaining vestige of his childhood. I quickly stopped laughing when I saw the look on his face.

"Sorry, father," I timidly mumbled, feeling as if I were only nine years old.

"Well, lads, I thank you for finding Charlotte and escorting her home." He turned to Holmes and uttered in a low voice, "Mr. Holmes, I do hope you consider what you say before you actually speak the next time."

Holmes bowed his head and apologized. "Pray, forgive me, sir. I will certainly take you up on that advice."

"Until the next lecture then. Have yourselves a good weekend." And with that, he led the boys outside. I waited in the parlor and waited for my father to come and lecture me about my thoughtlessness. I heard the front door close and saw my father's tall figure walk into the parlor.

"Sorry, Dad, my temper got the best of me. I shouldn't have run off."

He took a seat beside me and sighed. "Charlie, my dear, I know that you certainly did not want to have the private matters of your life aired for all to see. However, it does not excuse you of what you did. I was quite worried. "

"I know, I am so sorry. My emotions overpowered me." I said in an apologetic tone. I could not help but feel agitated when he said 'disability'.

"Now, if you've learned your lesson, let's wash up and get ready for dinner." He tapped me on the shoulder, stood up, and extended his hand towards me.

I sneered at his hand and remarked, "I can stand up on my own."

"I didn't say you couldn't," he replied as he withdrew his hand. He then started to sort through the post laying on the table.

I went over to give him a hug when I saw one of the letters in the pile was something interesting. I pulled it out and examined it.

"Look, Dad, it's from America."

"America, huh?" He nonchalantly replied as he glanced over the letter in my hand. "What does the postmark say?"

I glanced at the postmark. "It's from Boston. Probably from Nana or Uncle Ben."

"Hmm, Boston. That's interesting," he cheerily tapped my nose and added, "Now my dear, go ahead and wash up."

"All right," I answered with a nod and began to walk upstairs. I was about to say something more when I saw my father bend over the parlor fireplace and deposit the letter from Boston into the fire. Unopened.


	4. The Eyes Say It All

**_Thank you all for reading and reviewing! Please continue doing so!!_**

* * *

The next day, James and my eldest sister Anne paid a visit to our home here in Oxford. My mother delighted in their visits, saying that the family was once again whole. I had spent the day with my mother and the other help cleaning and preparing for their visit. I wanted to tell her that she had been mistaken since it was only James and Anne coming over—not Queen Victoria. If I said such a thing, my mother would have my ear twisted in her hand. 

"Charlotte, dear, could you ask Cook if lunch is ready yet?" My mother said as she inspected the mantelpieces on the tips of her toes. Amusingly, my mother was a petite beauty compared to my father's lean and lofty figure and it was quite a sight to see the pair of them together.

"I already asked since I knew you were going to ask." I said as I adjusted one of the paintings on the wall.

"Try not to be so insolent, Charlotte. It isn't cute." She said though I can see a smile on her face. Holmes was right that I inherited my hair from my mother. What he did not know was that I had also gotten her short temper as well. I guess that the typecast of redheads having terrible tempers is true in my case. "Now if you aren't too busy mouthing off, go open the door since they have already arrived."

"How do you know?" I asked just as a couple of knocks sounded on the door. My mother simply pointed out the window she was looking through. "Never mind...I'm coming!"

I opened the door and there was Anne with her husband Geoffrey. Anne managed to smother me into a tight hug despite her rather pregnant belly.

"Oh Charlotte, it's great to see you. I swear I don't understand how you got so tall." Anne smiled sweetly. She resembled my mother the most as she was also petite and as freckled as my mother.The only difference was that she got Dad's raven hair. Behind her stood Geoffrey, her husband.

"Hello, Geoff!" I greeted warmly as I traveled from Anne's embrace to Geoffrey. Geoffrey was a mild-mannered and slightly delicate young man with a pair of pince-nez perched on his sharp looking nose.

"Always a pleasure to see you, Charlotte. I brought some of Chopin pieces with me so I do hope we'll get an opportunity to play together." He said as he gave me a quick embrace and escorted Anne into the house as she was at the point of her pregnancy where any movement was cumbersome. Geoffrey was a cellist for the orchestra and was a talented musician. Every visit was punctuated with a mini-concert where I would play piano, Geoffrey the cellist, and my father who would put his old violin to his chin and join along.

As Anne and Geoffrey settled into the parlor and the house became crowded with chatter and laughter, I was seized from behind and was being tickled by an unseen though familiar person.

"JAMES! Stop it or I'll—I'll—"

"Or you'll what? You'll stutter?" He joked and continued to tickle me. James was still as much of a child despite being five years older than myself. "Now, where's Dad?"

Mother was the one that answered. "He needed to speak with some professors. He should be home any minute. Now James, give your mother a kiss."

"Aw, Mum, I'm too old for that." James said as he tried hiding behind me, which was quite impossible as he was exactly my father's height. He was practically my father's younger twin.

Despite my mother's petite size, she had the strength to pull all six feet of him and planted a big kiss on his cheek to his chagrin. It was his comeuppance for sneaking behind and tickling me and I began to laugh. He stuck out his tongue in response to my laughter. James was one of the best doctors in London but he still had the maturity of a five year old sometimes. Once he managed to wrench away from Mum he started to talk.

"So I heard from Dad that you met Sherlock Holmes."

"How the deuce do you know about him? And about that?"

"Dad sent me a telegram about it, saying you were distressed and all that. And well, I went to school with his older brother Mycroft and they're very much the same person if I remember right. Can be a bit of a busybody, if I remember right but smart as anyone that I've ever seen."

"'A bit'? That's an understatement." I cleared my throat and changed the subject. I did not want to talk about Holmes at all. "How's your practice, James?"

"I'm based around Kensington now and it's really busy considering that it's nearly winter and of course, everyone will get sick around this time. Remind me to give you a check-up while I'm here."

I sighed and rolled my eyes. "I'll remind you. I promise." I crossed my fingers behind my back as I said this.

"Well, I hope you aren't too busy so that you can find yourself a nice girl to settle down with." Mum said raising up that oh so familiar litany. James groaned while Anne and Geoffrey shared some sympathy but still laughed at my brother's exasperated look.

"Oh, Mum!" He said as he put his hat onto the stand and took a seat next to Geoff. He stretched his arms and placed them behind his back as he sunk into the fabric. "If I happen to find a good girl to settle down, you will be the first to know. By the way, why not ask Charlotte if she's found a nice boy…"

I was about to strangle him when a voice resonated through the home. "Halloa!"

I smiled and was the first to greet my father. "Halloa!" I responded as he took off his top hat and scarf. I helped him take off his tweed jacket. "You're late, James and Anne are here."

"I'm not late, they're early." He retorted as he gave me a kiss on the cheek and proceeded into the parlor. "Jimmy! Annie! Ah my family all here!"

Of course, being the man of the house, practically everyone was on their feet and gathered around the patriarch. There was just a pandemonium of sound all around as everyone was talking at the same time. It took Josephine about four minutes to let us know that dinner was ready.

"Well, I'm starving so let's all continue this pandemonium in the dining room!" He said. "Oh, and Geoff, I do hope you brought your cello. I would like to play some Boccherini."

"Of course I brought it along, sir."

"Good lad, good lad," Father said clapping a hand on one of Geoffrey's shoulders.

After a delicious and satisfying dinner, we sat conversing around the dining table while Father cooed over Anne's large stomach and dispensed advice for Geoff's impending fatherhood duties.

"Having a child is such a joy but at the same time it will be quite a strain. I remember Charlie here would wake us up in the middle of the night for a month straight right after she was born." Father said as he poured himself another glass of wine.

"I think we're quite ready for it, Dad. You know how I've always enjoyed a challenge." Anne said as she rubbed her belly.

"Decide on any names yet?"

But before Anne or Geoffrey could answer, Josephine announced that there was a guest that wanted to speak with Dad.

"Oh Josephine could you tell the guest to call back tomorrow? It is dinner after all." Mum asked.

Dad got up. "No it's quite all right. I'll go see who it is." He walked out of the dining room and the conversation began once again at the table. While my head was in the conversation, I heard from the front door my father speaking in a low voice. The dining room door left open, I was able to see into the hallway and the front door. Inconspicuously I leaned my chair back slightly so that I could see what was going on.

My father's face had a concerned look upon his worn face. The figure who he was speaking with was obstructed by my father. Yet judging from my father's stance and gestures, he was not happy. After a couple more minutes, he closed the door but remained there for a second longer. He began to turn around and I leaned back forward and pretended to be nonchalant as he returned to the dining room.

"Who was that, dear?" Mum asked as he sat back down.

"Ah, well…it was just a colleague of mine." He said, his fingers tracing the rim of his wine glass. "That's all."

"I see," she said and continued giving advice to Anne about her pregnancy.

James was telling me a story about one of his patients but I was not paying much attention. I watched Dad. Though subtle, I saw the lines on his forehead crease in worry. He suddenly looked up at me and we just looked at each other from across the table. Our eyes looked back at each other—the eyes passed down from father to daughter—and it was as simple as that. He knew that I had seen something and I also knew that this was never to be mentioned.

* * *

I felt compelled to paint the next day and discovered that I had run out of paints and canvasses. Instead of getting Josephine or one of the other servants to do it, I decided to set off and go on my own—especially when Mum decided to _help _James find a possible wife. James and I shared one thing in common—which is our temper—and if there was one thing that could perturb him greatly it's an invasion of privacy on his part. Besides, if she's trying to help James, I'm sure that at some point she'll try and _assist_ me. And that was definitely the worst thing she could do at the moment. 

Perhaps I should explain myself.

When I fell ill the previous year, I was completely paralyzed on my left side. I was literally in bed for pretty much the entire six months which stretched from late August to early February. During that span of time, my eighteenth birthday came—an important event to so many young girls as it symbolized their entry into society.

I was never officially entered into society. No debutante ball was arranged on my behalf and not that I minded—since parties are usually a large bore for me—but with no entry into society came that I never had a social season where boys came to my door and asked for my permission to court me and such.

Being the daughter of a progressive and educated man as my father is (and wanting to resemble him as much as I could), I was much more interested on reading and studying any book I could get my hands on instead of the latest fashions and how to attract a suitable suitor. Hence, I never really learned about men and frankly I was never interested in marriage—something that I kept secret to myself though I'm sure that my father knew in that oddly weird way that he always does. And I will be the first to say that this attitude cemented itself as I lay sick in bed.

So escaping from my mother's matchmaking hands, I took my bicycle and set out for town. A gift given to me by my father, my mother often thought that it was folly giving me a bicycle considering my _delicate_ state yet James agreed that the gift was a good one considering after the polio had managed to go away, I would need to exercise my leg. I had made my way to busy High Street when I heard my name being called. I stopped my bicycle and turned around to see Aidan Keating walking down the street.

He ran to catch up with me and I dismounted my bicycle. "Hello, Mr. Keating, how are you?"

"It's Aidan when we're not around the adults, Miss Andrewes."

"Very well, if you're going to be casual about things then I insist you call me Charlotte." I said amused. "What are you doing here, Aidan? Shouldn't you be in class?"

"No, no, I'm done for today. I'll probably study a bit more but I'll probably go cross-eyed if I read another book at the moment so I needed some fresh air. How about yourself, Charlotte, what are you doing about town?"

"Well, I needed to fetch some paints and canvasses and I wanted to get some fresh air as well." I said as he started to walk again. I decided to walk next to him with my bicycle.

"I have nothing better to do so I might as well come along with you." He said with a smile. However I could not help but feel anxiety in the pit of my stomach.

After walking a couple more blocks, I got the paints and canvasses and put the paints into my basket and Aidan kindly carried the canvasses. We managed to occupy our time by talking about his studies and rowing practice and the various books that I've read. However, that could only fill so much time and we sunk into an awkward silence.

"So…" Aidan started to talk. "I wanted to ask if you weren't busy and didn't need to head back home if you could accompany me to a fencing competition at Christ Church."

By the time the match was over, I thought to myself, Mum was probably done attempting to match up James with some poor young woman or other. Thus she would be done expending her energies and would not perform her _services _on me. I accepted gladly and we went on our way.

* * *

I began to realize that perhaps going with Aidan had been a bad idea for I realized that for him there was more of a romantic implication to our outing that I stupidly had not thought of this. As Aidan and I walked together, he insisted on taking my bike and also whenever he managed to look at me, I could see something in his eyes that wanted more than a casual friendship with me. _Damn it all, _I thought to myself. 

The match was to be held in an unused classroom. We entered and found that the desks had been pushed back to the wall to make use of the most space. Several bystanders were already waiting for the match to begin, sitting on the tops of the desks. Some benches had also been brought in for extra seating and that is where Aidan and I decided to sit.

I tried to put myself at ease and subdue these anxious feelings. I watched the competitors gather on opposite ends of the room. Some were putting on their protective gear while others were slashing at imaginary opponents. One competitor caught my eye not by his actions but lack of them. He was leaning against the wall with his foil in hand, his eyes closed. I then realized that the fencer was none other than Holmes.

Aidan was about to speak when I interrupted him. "I didn't know Holmes fenced."

"Oh," he said a little put off by my bringing up of Holmes. "Yes and he's quite accomplished. I'm sure that he'll do a great job." He raised his arm and waved at Holmes. Holmes merely nodded in his own way of greeting and his grey eyes moved towards my direction. I looked away and tried to focus on something else but luckily Aidan supplied conversation to distract me.

"So Charlotte, I heard that it will be your birthday very soon."

"Yes, it will be. I will be nineteen years old."

"Well, congratulations," he said with a smile that twinkled those bright blue eyes of his. "I heard that there will be some sort of festivities in your honor."

"Yes, my mother had it arranged for me. She missed out on the opportunity to throw me a party last year due to…well, you know."

"Oh right, well…I wanted to ask if I could accompany you…"

Oh dear, I had been right. Now what the hell was I going to do? Aidan was a nice man and a handsome looking one at that but I just was in no way interested in him in a romantic way. Before I could give Aidan an answer, Professor Ellis had raised his hand in the air to bring attention to the sizable crowd.

"All right, everyone, let us get settled and everything. The match is about to begin. I'll introduce you to the team from Baillol College," there was polite applause heard from all around. "And our own team from Christ Church." Louder cheers were heard this time around. Professor Ellis raised his hands in the air once again and waited for quiet to reign in the hall again. Finally satisfied, he spoke once again. "I want everyone to behave civilly. This is not some street brawl you are watching. This is a gentlemen's sport and I want such behavior that warrants it." He surveyed the crowd again as if to instill the severity of the sport. "The match will begin now."

I felt Aidan's hand move over mine and I looked at him.

"I'll let you know after the match what my answer is." I said removing my hand and rubbing my left arm.

He moved closer and whispered in my ear. "I'll be waiting,"

I knew he would and I knew that I would need to find some way to let him down easy. I felt someone else's eyes upon me and I turned and saw Holmes looking straight at me with a small smile on his face. Was it possible that he knew what was going on? Hell, if he knew about my polio, I'm sure he'd be able to figure out Aidan's forward nature and my unease from several feet away.

At the match's conclusion, Christ Church had managed to win with a slight edge over Baillol courtesy of Holmes. Of course, Holmes gloated over his victory and had a smug look on his face as he polished his foil and removed the protective clothing. Everyone had gathered around him, giving him cheers and applause. Aidan went over to Holmes and gave him a congratulatory punch on the shoulder.

"Brilliant job, Holmes! Well done!" Aidan said.

"Well, I thank you, Aidan, but you see that win was quite elementary." Holmes said with an air of mock modesty. "You see, that fellow from Baillol parried when he should have lunged and—well, you saw the rest."

"Quite an accomplishment, I must say," Professor Ellis said, looking over his pupil warmly. "I'll see you in the laboratory Monday morning, Mr. Holmes?"

"Of course, Professor," he then turned towards me. "Well, Miss Andrewes, I thought we would never cross paths again."

"I would agree with you at any other time however Aidan invited me to join him." I retorted as politely as I could for we were still in a public atmosphere. I would have to rip him apart some other time again. "However, I must agree that it was quite a match."

"I would say so myself if I were able to see that match for myself." Holmes said. I felt like I was going to choke on this arrogance. "May I assume that you and Aidan are courting?"

The shift in subjects was not only abrupt but absolutely uncalled for. My face essentially turned the same hue as my hair and before I could answer, it seemed that Providence had some divine retribution in store.

"SHERLOCK!"

It was Holmes' turn to turn scarlet as a streak of pink taffeta shot past me and appeared at his shoulder. It was a young girl perhaps around my own age with curly blonde hair kept in a frizzled bun who looked at Holmes adoringly with large brown eyes. A heavy sigh escaped Holmes and from the glowering look in his grey eyes I could tell that this wasn't a pleasant visit.

"Oh Sherlock, you were so brave and strong! Did you hear me cheering for you because I was and see, because I cheered for you, you won—"

Holmes attempted to interrupt her, saying brusquely. "Actually, Miss Ellis, I won because—"

"Oh Sherlock," she rested her curly head on his shoulder to his great vexation. "We make a great pair the both of us. I cheered you on and you won."

He put his hand on his furrowed brow. "Aidan, Miss Andrewes, I have the _greatest pleasure_ in introducing you to Miss Emily Ellis. Emily, this is Aidan Keating and Charlotte Andrewes."

Emily didn't even seem to notice us and kept up her adoring rant. Aidan gave me a sidelong glance and I tried to smother my laughter. Oh this was sweet, sweet revenge.

"Sherlock, oh, we belong together, don't you see?" Emily's eyes and voice said beseechingly. "We make a great couple, don't you think?"

The look of anger and horror upon Holmes sent me over the edge and a giggle managed to escape me which unfortunately got Emily's attentions.

"Why are you laughing?" Emily said with a fanatic tone. "Sherlock Holmes and I are going to be together, you'll see! Mrs. Emily Holmes…I love the sound of that. Doesn't it sound _lovely_, Sherlock?"

Holmes finally managed to recover from the shock and regained his wits. He said with a kindly voice that I thought he was incapable of, "Emily, dear, I believe I see your father looking for you."

"Oh well, then I must see to Daddy." She fixed a would-be seducing gaze on Holmes. "Until we meet again, my dear Sherlock, parting is such sweet sorrow." She puckered up her lips and blew him a kiss and off went Emily Ellis to wreak havoc on someone else.

Holmes looked positively green at this point. "The bane of my existence,"

"Oh I don't know, Holmes, I think you two would be quite happy with each other." I said unable to control my laughter. Aidan released the long-held laughter and began to hoot loudly. Holmes just stood silent as our laughter rang all around him. Finally when we managed to calm down he cleared his throat.

"Well, are you quite done?"

"No, wait a moment, Sherlock," Aidan said catching his breath and then starting to laugh again. My laughter had already started to fade away when Holmes ultimately put a damper on my mood.

As Aidan was distracted by his laughing fit, he leaned over to me and whispered, "It seems that the both of us have attracted unwanted attentions."

Any signs of laughter had fled from me after that statement.


	5. Night Owls

**_Thank you all for reading and reviewing!  
And since I have not mentioned this as of yet:_**

**_Sherlock Holmes and all familiar characters are not mine. All of the unfamiliar characters are...except Charlotte, she doesn't like being coddled. _**

* * *

When I arrived back home, I heard the strains of the cello and violin emanating from the music room. As I hung up my coat, I tried to identify the piece that Geoff and my father were playing. I placed the paints and canvasses into my room when I heard the violin being strummed—yes, strummed—and I finally figured out what piece that was. I rushed downstairs towards the music room and then quietly snuck into the performance of Boccherini's _La Musica Notturna Delle Strade Di Madrid No. 6, Op. 30_.

Geoff sat down with the cello standing beside him, bent over as he played while his head bobbed in time with the music. As I watched him, I always thought that those precariously perched pince-nez would fall off but they never managed to. His normally neat chestnut brown hair however had turned into an unkempt mess as he played due to his movements.

Father on the other hand stood besides him with his eyes closed, almost as if he were imagining the notes were being written in the air. His lithe fingers strummed the violin's strings and he seemed to be bobbing up and down with the music. He opened his eyes and when he saw me, he gave me a wink. I smiled in return. This was his favorite piece of music to play and despite the arthritis in his hands, he would never miss an opportunity to play it.

Once they finished playing, we all applauded.

"Beautiful as always, sweetheart," Anne said as she attempted to get up to give Geoff a handkerchief. Held down by her pregnant belly, she soon gave up and merely threw it in his direction and blew him a kiss.

"Thank you, darling," Geoff said as he caught it (both towel and kiss) and wiped his sweaty brow. Every time he played, Geoff would always exert himself so much that he would turn into a sopping mess.

Mum turned back to where I was standing. "Oh, Charlotte, where did you disappear off to? I wanted to introduce you to this delightful young woman. You would have been good friends with her since James seemed fond of her as well."

"No Mum," James said as he folded the newspaper and placed it on the table next to him. "I wasn't fond of her. She was quite frivolous if you ask me."

"You do not know the meaning of the word 'frivolous' until you encounter Professor Ellis's daughter." Father said with a smile as he put his violin away.

"You mean Emily?" I asked, remembering Holmes' chagrin towards the percolating young lady.

"I see you've met her and while it is not my desire to speak ill of Professor Ellis," he simply smiled and gave me a look to convey the mutual understanding between us. He cleared his throat and changed the subject. "Well, Charlie, where did you disappear to?"

"Oh, I just wanted to get some paints and canvasses—"

"That was an awfully long time to just get paints and canvasses." James muttered and I glared at him.

"Don't interrupt me, James. Anyways, I bumped into a friend of mine and suggested that we headed towards the fencing match at Christ Church, which was quite entertaining. That was the entirety of my afternoon."

"Who did you go with?" James butted in again.

"A friend of mine, James," I said.

"Who's this friend?"

"JAMES!"

"Enough yelling," Father said in a soft voice that meant that the argument was over. If there is one thing that I will always remember about my father, he never yelled nor raised his voice. There was enough meaning in his voice for someone to know when he meant business. "It's getting late. Perhaps we should have supper and then I'll be retiring for the evening."

I stuck out my tongue at James who made an equally distorted face in return.

* * *

The romantic predicament that I had unwittingly gotten myself into with Aidan was keeping me up. As I lay in bed watching the moon rise, I could not fall asleep at all. One would think that it is such a simple thing to turn a man down but you must recall my age and my societal experiences during this time of my life. Since those years, I have obviously grown yet then I was merely nineteen years old and when it came to social situations, it would be safe to say that I would rather have a book.

So Aidan's pursuit of my interests irked me in that it was clearly unwanted and that I did not want to hurt his feelings. It would seem that I was born with the tendency to never hurt one's feelings despite the effects that it seems to have on me. I heard the grandfather clock downstairs chime as another hour had passed and decided that perhaps a glass of water or something could put me to sleep.

I put on my dressing gown and crept downstairs. I passed by my father's study and realized that the lamps were lit. I slowly opened the door and saw my father bent over his desk, busy with his papers. He seemed extraordinarily busy and I decided to leave him to his work.

"Charlie, dear, what are you doing up so late?" Father said as I began to close the door. I stopped and hesitated. Silly me, why had I disturbed my father's work? "Come now, my dear, you aren't interrupting me. In fact, it would be quite nice to have some company at this twilight hour."

I decided to enter and Father pointed over at the wing-backed chair. I sat down as he took off his spectacles and cleaned them.

"Can't sleep," I said as I placed my elbow on the chair.

"Well, I figured as much, you night owl." Father said as he placed his glasses back on. I never did like him with them on, it made him seem much older than he really was. "If you don't mind keeping this old man company for awhile, you can stay with me."

"You're not going to tell me to go back to bed, that it's far too late for me to still be up, and all that nonsense?"

"What will be the point of that? Obviously you're up either because you want a midnight snack or something's on your mind. I'm thinking that it's the latter."

I smiled impishly at his guess. "What makes you think that?"

"You would have come into my study with cookies or something as you would eat first then come in here and secondly, you're twirling your hair and you only do that when you got something on your mind that is bothering you."

I had just wound one thick of my hair around my index finger when he finished his statement. He looked at me with a knowing glance and chuckled merrily as he dipped his pen in the inkwell. I released the strand of my hair and shook my head. I was terribly predictable, I guess.

"Cookies do sound good at the moment." I laughed and leaned back into the chair. "Dad, when you were younger, were you ever rejected by a girl?"

"In a courting situation, you mean?" He said not looking up as he scrawled something in his journal. He put his pen down and swiveled his chair towards me. "Let me think for awhile, it's been awhile since my youth…well, Charlie, dear, I remember this one young lady who initially reciprocated my affections and then merely used me to get closer to my best friend…"

"And how did you feel about that?"

"Well, I was crushed of course." I must have winced at that moment as he gave me a funny look and then asked, "Does this have anything to do with Aidan Keating, perhaps?"

My eyes must have nearly popped right out of my head and before I could muster up some words to ask how the deuce did he know and all that, he answered for me.

"Mr. Keating had heard of the party that we were giving in honor of your birthday and wanted to ask my permission if he could squire you about the party."

"…And? And what did you say?" I asked as I heard a meow coming from the corner of the room. It seemed that Dad's old orange tabby had awoken during our little discussion and had crawled over and was rubbing himself around his owner's legs.

"Hello, Apollo," he said as he pulled the cat onto his lap and petted it. In response, Apollo purred. "Well, I told him that it was not me that he would be escorting so I told him to ask you instead." Seeing the astounded look upon my face, he added, "Oh, Charlie, you should not be surprised—I see the way that he looks at you whenever you happen to come to my lectures. Obviously you're oblivious to the fact as I can tell from your shocked face."

"Well, Dad, it's just that I do not think about those kinds of affairs." I explained. "I never do. I just do not want to hurt him and also he's a rather nice bloke and I do not want to wreck a friendship."

Father nodded as he heard my response. Apollo uncurled himself from my father's lap and crawled over his desk, which surprisingly did not ruin the stacks of papers there, and hopped onto the shorter bookshelf next to the desk. He curled back into a ball and watched the both of us with those gold eyes of his.

"Well, Charlie, I am not you so I cannot tell you what you should do about it."

I brought my knees up to my chin and sighed. "I know, Dad…I just wanted to talk, you know before it gets all bottled up and then…"

"Yes, I know." He answered with a wink and the grandfather clock in the hallway chimed three times. "Good Lord, is it really that late? Your mother would be upset if we did not get up in time for mass."

"I know," I said trying to get up when Apollo decided that it was the best time to jump on me. "Apollo, you crazy cat, I swear you know when I'm about to get up and you spring me." He merely meowed in reply and I put him back on the ground. I gave Dad a hug and said, "Well, I hope that I can get some sleep after this."

"If you really want to hear my opinion, though, I think you have two options. The first one is that you can tell him that you do not feel the same or you can find someone else to escort you."

I considered these possibilities and then said, "Either way, I don't think it will be possible to do that with Aidan. You know how persistent can be—last year, he argued with you about a point difference in his exams."

"Yes, that was damned annoying," he muttered. "I ended up giving it to him just to stop him from camping outside my office."

I sighed and buried my face in my hands. "Is it possible for me to go alone?"

My father laughed and was about to join me when he stopped at the doorway and turned back to his papers. "Charlie, go ahead to bed. I need to write a letter."

"It's late, Dad. Couldn't it wait until tomorrow?"

"It will be very quick. Don't worry about me so," he said seeing the concerned look on his face. "You make me feel very old when you look at me like that. You look too mature to be my own daughter."

I smiled and hugged him once more and went upstairs. I could not help but wonder however why writing a letter in the dead of night would be so important to him.

* * *

The next week passed by in a blur as Mum enlisted me with helping get ready for the party. Everything from designing the invitations to selecting which flowers would be in the centerpieces of the tables. By the middle of the week, I felt quite exhausted and was practically dragged from one errand to another. On this particular day, we went to the dressmaker's shop where my mother and I were arguing over what I would wear.

"Mum, the corset's way too tight!" I managed to say despite the constriction around my waist. I wondered how many whales were killed so that _civilized_ women everywhere could suffocate themselves willingly.

"You will get used to it. I told you that you will." Mum said as she examined the umpteenth dress that I had tried on.

"The dress is not me, Mum. I'm sure it's beautiful on someone else, but not me." It was a frothy confection of lace and taffeta that practically overpowered my body. It looked like the many pillows that Mum would embroider at home and put on the sofas and chairs. It was something that Emily Ellis would wear in a heartbeat.

Mum judged the dress. "I like the detail though." She fingered the lace around the collar and then turned me around. "And the bustle, Charlotte, I think it enhances your figure. Lord knows you haven't a curve in your body."

I turned scarlet knowing that my body still resembled a twelve year old girl's except it had been stretched out like taffy. I looked at the bustle in the mirror and just thought it looked like I was hiding a child in there. I shook my head in refusal again and we trudged back into the dressing room.

Mum helped me get out of the dress and tucked a stray hair away from my face. "I remember when I turned nineteen. My parents threw a party for me and it was quite lovely. It was the talk of the town for quite awhile. Of course, my younger sister had to upstage me with her debutante ball the next year…"

Her voice trailed off, most likely her mind dwelling on my missed eighteenth birthday. "Mum, it's all right. I could not very well have a debutante ball in a wheelchair."

"I just don't want you to feel disadvantaged by missing out on your social season." She said as she gave the dress to the attendant who in turn gave us another dress, which looked slightly more promising than the other.

"Mum, you know me well enough that you know it won't matter to me." I said as I stepped into the dress. "If I happen to find a man interested in me, that is quite all right by me."

She sighed and then helped button me in. "You are so much like your father sometimes. It terrifies me at times."

I could not help but smile at her words. "Thanks Mum."

She smoothed the dress over my shoulders and looked me up and down. "However, I do not think that your father would look lovely in a dress."

I laughed at the image of my father in a dress and Mum led me outside to the mirror. The dress was extremely superior to the one that I had tried on before. It was a navy blue gown in a _polonaise_ style worn off the shoulders that actually managed to show that I actually had décolletage. The bustle in the back was not too large and the skirt actually managed to end at the right length. It was simple yet beautiful.

Mum knew by the smile on my face that this was something that we could both agree on. She turned to the attendant and said,

"We'll take it."

* * *

Mum and I were walking down by the meadows near Christ Church, taking a rest from the busy activities of the day when we encountered the very person that had been the chagrin of my thoughts. Aidan was seated by the edge of the Isis with many of his friends from the rowing team. It was the most relaxed I had seen him with his shirt collar unbuttoned and shirtsleeves pulled up. His brown hair was not plastered back as I normally saw but was ruffled by the wind and slightly unkempt. In short, he looked much better than I had seen him. I just did not want him to notice that I was here.

"Have we been walking too long, dear?" She said as she eyed my cane, which I decided to take with me today. "We can rest if you like."

"No, Mum, I'm fine. I knew that we were going to walk a lot today so I brought the cane. I'll tell you when I need to rest."

"Very well," she said then switched to another subject. "Charlotte, have you thought of any possible escorts to take you? I'm sure I can talk to some of my friends if there is no one you have in mind. Possibly Alexandra Scott's son…"

"Mum!" I recoiled, forgetting to keep my voice low in case he might hear. "Francis Scott is extraordinarily disgusting and rude. There is no chance I would allow him to escort me anywhere."

Aidan looked up at the sound of my voice and smiled when he saw me. He excused himself from his group and walked over to Mum and me. He gave me a smile, which faltered slightly when he saw that I had taken my cane.

"Hello Mrs. Andrewes, Miss Andrewes," he nodded to both of us and then talked to Mum first. "I'm Aidan Keating, one of Professor Andrewes's students and also a good friend of your daughter's. I must say that you look very much like your daughter—you could nearly pass as siblings."

My mother laughed at this while I could not help but feel slightly cynical about his appeal towards Mum. _Trying to smooth his way towards me, was he?_

"Mrs. Andrewes, I heard that your daughter's birthday will be next week." Aidan said and I could not feel him trying to sneak his way in. I raised an eyebrow while he gave me a wink in return when Mum was not looking. Oh no, I should have expected this.

"Oh, yes," Mum replied. "She'll be celebrating her nineteenth birthday. We are throwing quite a celebration. I do hope you will stop by, Mr. Keating."

"Well, thank you for inviting me, Mrs. Andrewes." He said with a smile. "Mrs. Andrewes is it possible if I could speak with your daughter for a moment."

"Oh, of course," she said with a satisfied grin on her face. She started to walk further down the path and she whispered briefly to me, "He's a nice man! I do hope he will court you."

I managed to put a smile on my face and was once again left alone with Aidan.

"Is your leg hurting today?" He asked as he pointed towards my cane.

"My leg is fine. Honestly, Aidan, stop pitying me. I'm still living and walking around." I said feeling irritated by his overt concern. He looked slightly wounded by my seemingly unprovoked attack. "I apologize, Aidan, I just do not appreciate pity. It accomplishes nothing at all."

"I'm sorry, Charlotte. I just care about you." Aidan rubbed his neck and looked down at the grass. "Listen, about your birthday and that question I asked you last week…I still have not gotten an answer."

"Right," I said and inhaled, knowing that this would be the perfect opportunity to tell him that I did not want to go with him. "Well, Aidan, you see—" And at that point I made the stupid decision of looking at him directly in the eyes. I saw anticipation and hope there and I could not bear to tell him. "Aidan, I still need to think about it. There are others out there who also want to escort me and I must consider them as well."

It was the best excuse I could think of and I felt like kicking myself right now. I should have just ended this right now but my stupid consideration for others got in the way. Damn it all.

"Well, all right, that would seem fair." He answered. "Just let me know as soon as you can."

"I shall," I nodded and began to walk in the direction Mum had walked in. "I must be going. There are other preparations that Mum and I need to tend to."

"Goodbye, Charlotte," he said, taking my hand in his and giving it a kiss. I gave a nervous giggle and walked away quickly.

"So, what did you and Mr. Keating converse about?" Mum asked with genuine interest.

"Oh, just his studies and various activities." I lied, wishing that my hair was down instead of being encased in a taut bun. I wanted to twirl a strand to calm my nerves. Instead I hummed Boccherini to myself.

"Well, he would seem like a fine escort for you." She said. When I gave her a glowering look, she merely shrugged in response. "I am not demanding you to go with him. Merely a suggestion, that's all."

I needed to take care of this predicament but how? I had already tried to turn him down but that did not work. Then I remembered what my father had said, it was either turn him down or find someone else to escort me. That would work but exactly who would I be able to find? Suddenly it clicked.

"Mum, I'm sure you have other errands about town but I just realized that Father wanted me to get something that he left in his office. I just need to fetch it really quick."

"Well, all right, my dear. I will see you back home." Mum said and with that, I quickly ran towards the Christ Church campus.

I was not going to Dad's office and I passed through Tom Quad and ran past the lily-filled fountain. I ran through the stone halls with its medieval arches while several professors looked at me with serious disdain and some students whistling and cat-calling. I finally reached my destination and stood outside the door, waiting for my breath to catch up. I wiped the sweat off of my brow and then went inside Professor Ellis's laboratory. Immediately upon entering, I was assaulted by a cold and biting voice.

"Damn it, Emily, I told you not to bother me when I'm in here."

When I did not respond, Holmes turned around and he raised his eyebrows. He turned back around to focus on his experiment. Just when I thought he was going to ignore my presence entirely, he talked.

"Miss Andrewes, what brings you here all the way from the meadows?" He asked lightly as he poured one chemical into the beaker.

"How do you—" I then realized the fresh mud from my boots. "My boots, yes, very clever observation."

He was about to pour one chemical into another test tube when he stopped and put them down at my answer. "Why are you acting kindly? I would think that after our previous brush-ins, you would be quite reluctant to engage in my company once more." He paused and with lightning-quick speed, he whirled around on his stool to face me. "Unless…"

I sighed and could not believe that I was doing this.

"Holmes, I have a favor to ask."


	6. Birthday Sentiments

**_Thanks for reading everyone! I hope you're all enjoying this as much as I am._**

* * *

The evening weather was much warmer and clearer than I thought it would be and it seemed almost providential considering the gathering tonight. Well, perhaps _gathering _was not the appropriate term as I watched from the porch. I smoothed the navy blue satin of my gown as a couple of my relatives passed by raising their champagne glasses to me as a salute. Seeing that I did not have champagne to return their salute, I smiled and gave them something akin to a military salute, raising my index and middle fingers toward my forehead. I leaned over the railings to observe the activity below.

Underneath the lofty oak tree, a string quartet played while Geoff looked towards them with a critical eye. Anne, who was one more month away from her due date, seemed content to remain seated with her feet propped up on an extra chair. Some torches were placed outside to light the ever darkening yard where the light flickered and interesting shadows played across the lawn. Tables had been set up throughout the width of the yard where many were seated and an open area had been designated as a dance floor where several taffeta dressed whirls spun across with silk-suited partners.

A tap on my shoulder wrenched me away from my observational and slightly voyeuristic tendencies and I turned around to see my interloper but managed to hear that unmistakable high, clear voice.

"I took the liberty of fetching you champagne. Lord knows that I may need it by the end of the night." Holmes said as he handed me the filled flute. He actually managed to look slightly handsome as he wore a dark suit that was impeccably tailored. The only thing marred was that perpetual look of arrogance on his face.

"Why thank you, Holmes," I quipped, my voice practically dripping in sarcasm. "It seems that we may share the same sentiments exactly."

"Well then I believe that calls for a toast." He answered wryly and raised his glass. I raised my own and clinked our glasses together.

Before I press on with this vein in my narrative, I will briefly revert back to the accord that Holmes and I reached that morning amongst the smells of chemicals and sounds of sarcasm.

* * *

"Holmes, I have a favor to ask."

He placed a finger at his lips while his grey eyes seemed to dance with amusement. "And pray tell, what favor would that be?"

"I think you very well know…" I said through gritted teeth and rubbing my left arm. "I shan't explain anything to you. You know that this has to do with Mr. Keating's unwanted affections."

"Ah, is it?" He asked lightly as though the thought had not come across his mind. "Well, since you do not care to dance around the subject, why should I want to escort you? I am quite sure that you could find any other Oxford student to take you."

"Yes, someone wants to take Professor Andrewes' crippled daughter around." I muttered under my breath, hoping that he had not heard that. If he did, he did not respond nor give me a steely gaze. "There may have been some incentives on accompanying me, Holmes. Emotional appeals do not seem to affect you so allow me to appeal to your pragmatic side."

A smile settled upon his thin lips as he stood up and moved the stool next to him closer so that he may stretch out his feet in front of him. "You have my full and undivided attention, Miss Andrewes."

"What would you say if I can turn Emily Ellis's attentions away from you?" I asked tentatively, remembering Holmes' embarrassment over the flippant and maddening young lady. Holmes' forehead wrinkled at the sound of her name and then comprehension dawned upon him.

"How pragmatic indeed," Holmes mused as he opened his eyes and swiveled his seat towards me. "I see the path you are traveling upon, my dear lady—"

"Don't belittle me, Holmes." I interrupted as I walked across the chalkboard. "I can assure you that if you accompany me, I shall be able to get rid of Emily's attentions on you. When she sees me on your arm, she will learn to find someone else to bestow her attentions upon."

He swirled the contents of the mixture and then recorded the results in his notebook as he spoke, "Clever, clever, I must say—however, do you not think that this may actually have the reverse effects on our prospective _paramours_?"

"That the effect being they may latch onto us like leeches?" I in turn asked towards his hypothesis. "Emily would be disheartened and perhaps heartbroken but I do not see that young lady mourning for long. She'll find another Oxford scholar to dote upon soon enough. For Aidan, it would seem highly possible but seeing as the both of you are friends—"

"Keating is a mere acquaintance of mine," Holmes stressed, briefly locking eyes with me before returning to recording his results. "Nothing more and nothing less." Taken aback by this interruption, I was about to ask why when he added, "The word 'friend' is something that I do not use lightly, Miss Andrewes."

"Very well, Holmes. Yet while we've discussed the possible ramifications of accepting my proposal, you have not made your decision yet." I began to trace flowers on the dusty chalkboard while a smile slowly curled upon my face. "I'm beginning to think that you're stalling, Holmes."

"Merely traveling a bit further on the path you provided," he said and then continued to work on his experiment in silence with an occasional grunt as he spilled some acid onto his cuffs.

After a moment, I realized that the man was toying with me and making me wait for his decision. Though seething at his pointed ignorance of my, I decided that I would have to swallow whatever I was feeling and wait. I was halfway through writing Whitman's poem _To a Stranger_ from memory when a hand clasped my shoulder. I jumped, causing my perfect penmanship to jolt into wordless scribbles.

"Until then, Miss Andrewes." He answered and with that left me alone in the lab.

* * *

"So have you seen Emily yet?" I asked with a teasing edge in my voice. He looked unconcerned at my teasing.

"No, I have not seen that banshee of a girl yet." He said in a biting voice. "I know that she's around but most likely the girl is lurking in the shadows watching our every move."

"She's right behind you, I believe." I said though she really wasn't. I wanted to press his buttons considering how many times the man has needled me. Sure, revenge is childish and immature but it most definitely was enjoyable.

Holmes did not even blink or anything as he examined his nails. "Mr. Keating is currently behind you."

I was about to refute him when a soft yet familiar voice emerged from behind me. "Happy birthday, Charlotte."

I turned around and saw Aidan exactly where Holmes had said. _The man had a rather annoying tendency to be correct_, I thought to myself as I stood up and politely offered my hand to Aidan. He took it in his hands and gently kissed it.

"Good evening, Aidan, it is wonderful to see you." I said in a polite yet noncommittal tone.

"You look beautiful, I must say," he said and then eyeing my escort he coldly added, "Evening, Holmes."

"What is wrong, Keating? Don't I look lovely as well?" Holmes asked sardonically.

It was the first time that I heard him say something amusing yet acerbic. So he was capable of other traits asides from arrogance and that beleaguering tendency to be right. I nearly laughed yet I saw the hardness in Aidan's jaw at Holmes' words and I bowed my head to hide my smile.

When Aidan did not respond, Holmes stood up and gently tapped my shoulder. "There is a particular piece by Chopin that is quite suitable for a waltz, Miss Andrewes. Shall we?" I nodded and walked away with Aidan behind me and though I could not see his face, I knew that it was most likely screwed with disdain and annoyance. Holmes confirmed this as we moved out of Aidan's range of hearing, putting our empty champagne flutes on the servant's tray. "Keating seems to be seething with envy."

The dance floor was a swirl of silks and a symphony of raucous laughs that clashed wonderfully with the music. Holmes masterfully (as usual) set foot on the floor and bowed deeply while I gave a quick curtsy. He took my hands and placed one on his shoulder and the other he clasped in his hand and began to waltz.

For such a stiff man, I never thought Holmes would be a dancer but he was actually adequate. "You must have come from such an aristocratic family, Holmes."

"What makes you say that?" He asked.

"No working class family would have taught their sons how to dance seeing as food and shelter would be the main priority and the feeling of your hands reveals to me that you probably have not known a day of hard work in your life."

Yet before he could answer, my own clumsiness managed to tread on his foot. He winced slightly and I apologized quickly.

"I think," Holmes muttered icily. "That while your deduction is correct in my case, the link between great dancers and the aristocracy is not always true."

I would have thumped him at that moment for I was already embarrassed and he did not need to rub it in at all. Why the hell should I put up with this? After all, wasn't I also doing Holmes a favor by allowing me to accompany me and save him from Emily? Anger is an emotion that comes to me easily yet always manages to get me into trouble and often regret, which was exactly what happened. There was something else about Holmes that I had deduced.

"You're right-handed, Holmes?"

"Yes," he answered, though confused at my sudden turn in the conversation.

"Which tells me that the mark on your right wrist could not have been provoked on yourself," His eyes twitched down towards the mark on his wrist and he subtly attempted to avert my gaze on it by moving it at an angle I could not observe. But observed I already had. "It's a circular mark…looks like it's been burned. Roughly the circumference of a cigar…"

Holmes abruptly let go of my hands. I expected a blazing gaze at this but instead his eyes were unreadable. Luckily the music ended and I perfunctorily applauded and sprinted off towards the house, leaving Holmes to his own devices.

By the time I downed another flute of champagne and had polite yet inane conversations with some relatives and my father's colleagues, I felt a slight pang of guilt but that was quickly pushed aside by the image of frothy laces and blonde curls that was Emily Ellis.

"Hello, Emily," I greeted her as warmly as I could, which was quite an effort. "I'm glad that you and your father could come tonight."

"What did you do to him?" Emily asked petulantly as she absolutely swept away all prospects of polite interaction. I actually felt some pity for the girl who looked quite defeated with her red-rimmed blue eyes…pity that would soon fade fast.

"I have no idea what you are talking about, Miss Ellis." I answered and then began looking for a way out of this uncomfortable situation. I saw James talking with some St. Hilda's bluestocking girls and I tried to discreetly get his attention. He held one finger up, telling me to wait and then relapsed his attentions to the young ladies around him.

Emily narrowed her eyes and I could tell that she wanted to wring my neck if she could. "Look, Miss Andrewes, I do not know what Sherlock sees in you. Maybe he pities you, I don't know." The anger that had subsided with Holmes now returned with vengeance. "I should tell you though that he'll see through whatever it is that you've done."

She had cast me in the role of some sort of witch that was looming over a steaming cauldron. If I had my cane on me, I would have thumped her soundly and I actually wished she would. I was reaching my absolute limits when luckily I was saved.

"Charlotte, they want you outside. Mum and Dad are going to toast to you and all." James pulled me to his side and led me out.

"Oh God, that Emily is a nightmare." I said when we were out of earshot. "She thinks I'm trying to steal Holmes away from her."

"Well, are you?"

I recoiled in horror and then pretended to vomit. "Oh come on James. I would like to keep my dinner in my stomach and not out."

"Where is he anyways?" James asked as he gave our Aunt Betsy a quick hug while I blew a kiss.

"Right here, Andrewes," Holmes said appearing at my side.

"Ah, Holmes, good to see you. I was an acquaintance of your brother's during our time at Oxford." James greeted warmly as he shook hands with him. "Well, let me pass my sister into your hands and let the celebrations continue."

James gently nudged me back towards Holmes and was then ambushed by Aunt Betsy's horde of children. In vengeance, James roared like a monster and began chasing them through the labyrinth of party guests and servants. Meanwhile, I was left with Holmes and I was slowly becoming sober after the several flutes of champagne and also because I was not as angry as I was. With sobriety came the realization that I had unwittingly found a button that I had pressed, which caused him to be upset…essentially guilt.

"Holmes…"

"There is nothing to apologize for." Holmes replied in a harsh and biting voice that felt like a whip snapping on me. Obviously there was but he was refusing to talk about it. Mum was calling for everyone's attention towards the dance room. "Well, Miss Andrewes, let us make our way over."

We were meandering through the crowd when like a banshee Emily Ellis stood between in our path. Holmes fixed a light and uncaring look upon his visage and greeted her with a casual voice. At the sound of his voice, Emily latched herself on the arm that was not linked with mine.

"Oh, Sherlock, whatever she said to turn you against me, I don't care! I will still love you forever and ever." Emily whimpered as tears settled into those blue eyes as she stared into cold grey eyes.

He let out a long sigh and gently yet firmly managed to pry the simpering young woman off of his arm. "Emily, I do not know how to say this in a polite way but I am afraid I cannot reciprocate the feelings that you obviously have for me. There are many young men who will find you a viable young lady but I am not one of those young men. Do you understand me?"

Emily looked like she had broken into a million pieces for a moment and then put herself back together quickly. "Sherlock, but why? Am I not beautiful enough or…or…"

"I just do not have the same feelings, Emily." Holmes repeated firmly. He turned to me and surprisingly said to me in a gentle tone, "My dear Miss Andrewes, shall we proceed towards your parents?"

I nodded in reply and we passed by Emily with her ashen face. I could not help but feel some sympathy for the girl as Holmes and I passed her by. However, when I turned around after several minutes, I saw a young man cheering her up. I rolled my eyes and finally got on the dance floor, where Mum had begun to make a speech.

"Well, she took that blow quite hard." I said sardonically and then in a lower voice, I added, "Sorry, Holmes, I should've kept that to myself—"

"Like I said before, Miss Andrewes, there is nothing to apologize for." Holmes whispered yet this time there was no sense of iciness in his voice. In fact, when I turned to look at him there was a hint of humor in his eyes. "Anyways, I deserved it, didn't I?"

"…and to my darling daughter, Charlotte. May you continue to live your life laced with the beauty, intelligence, and optimism in which you live. Let us raise our glasses," and with that, the guests raised their glasses. "And give a toast to my lovely daughter, Charlotte Sophia Andrewes. Happy birthday, sweetheart!"

"Happy Birthday, Charlie!" Dad said as he raised his glass in one hand and clasping my mom's shoulder in the other.

A chorus of birthday sentiments rang in my ears from the various guests and my eyes landed on Aidan who raised his glass halfheartedly and had a half smile upon his face. However his eyes were not on me and they were on Holmes and those normally genial blue eyes were filled with contempt.


	7. The Advantageous Cripple

**_Thank you all for the reviews! It really puts a smile on my face and inspires me to continue writing this lovely story._**

**_Oh and a couple of questions for my readers: Is there anything that I can possibly improve on in this story and most importantly is Charlotte a Mary Sue or have any Sueish tendencies?_**

**_Enjoy this chapter, I think this is my favorite so far._**

* * *

My nose and body swam in the delightful scent of lavender and the warmth of the bathwater. The guests had finally abandoned the backyard, leaving a wake of pandemonium and disorder that the maids would have to clean up. Despite my previous misgivings, Holmes had been on his best behavior…well, perhaps not best but he behaved nonetheless. I washed my hair and then sunk back into the suds.

After the guests had left, we gathered the presents into the parlor and opened each and every one of them while Anne listed who exactly gave what so that I would send them thank-you notices. Most of the gifts were an assortment of frippery and _necessities_ that a young lady wants and needs. Some were actually quite lovely such as sheet music of Mozart and Beethoven from Anne and Geoff, a lovely cameo brooch from James, and a lovely assortment of hairpins from Mum. Like I told Dad before, he gave me a book, an edition of _Leaves of Grass_ by one of my favorite poets, Walt Whitman. But those were from my family so of course they will stand out. Holmes interestingly (and pragmatically) gave me a walking stick made of a nice mahogany wood that had a silver handle.

With a good soaking that my fingers and toes resembled prunes, I got out, dressed in a comfortable yet tattered dressing gown and dried my hair with my towel. I combed through the wet and knotted that practically snarled at me for its attempts at my trying to make it straight. After wrestling with that, I tied it into a loose braid and collapsed onto my bed. I reached for the book on my nightstand, _The Portrait of a Lady_, and had just cracked it open when a knock fell on the door.

"Charlie, are you decent?"

"Aren't I always?" I said playfully and added, "Come in, Dad."

He came in and sat down at the foot of the bed. As usual, the tabby shadow that was Apollo also hopped on with a loud meow. "I hope you enjoyed yourself tonight."

"I did, it was lovely. I especially loved the Whitman." I said indicating the new tome on my bookshelf.

"I knew you would like that. Whitman's a good poet…" his voice trailed off as Apollo began to claw on the coverlet. "Apollo, you silly tom cat…ah, well, Charlie, I have a confession to make."

The man had a grave look on his face and I immediately sat up and put my book down. "What is it? Dad, what's wrong?"

That grave look remained on his face and he sighed deeply. "Well, Charlie…it's just that…I got you something else for your birthday."

I stared at my father for a moment longer as my jaw dropped. That man had me worry over something that turned out to be another birthday present. I reached over for my fluffiest pillow and slammed him. "Pardon my language, Dad, but bloody hell, you had me so worried!"

This man who was an extremely eminent Oxford professor was practically falling down laughing in his dressing gown and slippers. He attempted to dodge my feathery assault but he managed to get hit, which caused some of the feathers to fly out and land on his grey head, making him look much older.

"Well, if you would stop barraging me with your pillow," and with that statement, he caught it as I swung it at him and then raised it over his head while I covered my head. He brought it down quickly but just dropped it down on my head. "I will give you your other present."

"Very well, then," I said as I fluffed up the pillow, put it behind me, and laid back down on it. Dad pulled a box out of his dressing gown, put it on the coverlet, and pushed it towards me.

It was a flat medium-sized box. Judging by the box, I already had a feeling of what was inside. I opened it and though cliché in its effects, I gasped at the beauty inside. While I was not an avid consumer of jewelry, the pearls inside winked at me as if they wanted to share a secret. Three strands of pearls formed a beautiful choker, much like the one that Princess Alexandra often wore. The pearls were luminescent and simple in its beauty.

My father looked just as luminescent as the pearls he had just given me. "Ah, I had a feeling that you'd like them. Here, let me see them on you." I handed over the box and sat down beside him. As he put the necklace on me, he said, "I've been getting you books since you were twelve years old. I figured that it would be time to get you something more substantial."

I walked over to the mirror and examined it. Of course, this was quite an incongruous scene with I in my dressing gown and my red hair tied in a messy braid with one of the most elegant things I had ever worn in my life.

"Oh, they are beautiful." I said as I ran my fingers over the smooth pearls. I ran over and hugged him, who warmly returned the embrace. "Thank you so much. I swear you spoil me."

"Of course I do," he answered then broke the embrace, placing his hands on my shoulders. He took off the necklace for me and placed it on my vanity. "Now you go to bed—it's quite late."

"All right," I gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and bundled up in the sheets. He closed the door behind him and I settled underneath the covers and opened up my novel to read. Yet just before I read the first word, I heard my father's voice from the hallway saying,

"I said bed, no more reading!"

The man knew me too well, I thought to myself as I blew out my lamp.

* * *

A couple of weeks had passed since the celebrations and while snow had not yet showered down upon the gleaming towers of Oxford, the mild wind that had prevailed for the majority of the season was now beginning to bluster and burn against any uncovered skin. The lush green grass around the campuses was dusted with frost in the early mornings under pewter skies.

I sat on the floor of the parlor in front of a cheery, blazing fire while Mum busied herself by brushing my hair. She bullied me into it in her gentle yet firm manner and she was seated in a chair above me due to the vast differences in our heights. Humming a gentle yet unknown tune, her fingers maneuvered through my hair with relative ease with the brush following it.

"I do hope that you stop growing one of these days." Mum murmured with a melancholy laugh in her voice. "It makes me feel quite old when I stand next to you."

"I wish I could as well. Whenever I walk around town, people look at me as if I were some giantess or whatnot." I said wincing as the brush snagged on a tangle. "Ouch, Mum, that hurt."

"It hurts to be beautiful, my dear." Mum answered perfunctorily.

"Tell me about it, I believe this is the first time that I've been able to have a deep breath since the party. Why did you have to make Josephine tie the corset so tight?"

"Oh quit complaining," she tut-tutted though I could sense a smile in her voice. "Now that it's all brushed, would you like me to tie it in a bun for you?"

By then, I had already begun tying it into a nice chignon. "Never mind, Mum, I've managed it."

The bell jingled from the front door just as I finished putting the last pins in my hair and I was walking over to answer it when Mum told me to let Josephine answer it. I blew the fringe away from my eyes and sat down, fingering the pearls Dad had given me. I heard a few words exchanged at the front door, one being Josephine and the other one a masculine voice that was sharp and clear. No, it could not be…

Josephine stood in the threshold of the parlor and bowed politely to Mum. "Madame, there's a Mr. Holmes here."

I felt my eyes widen in surprise. What the bloody hell was he doing here?

Holmes walked in next to Josephine, wearing a dark blue lounge suit and a bowler hat while carrying an assortment of books under his arm. He tipped his hat towards Mum and me as he greeted both of us. Josephine helped him shed his coat and hung his hat on the hat stand.

"Ah, young Mr. Holmes, an unexpected surprise to see you at this hour." Mum said as she warmly gave her hand to Holmes, who accepted it in his briefly. "I am afraid that my husband, the Professor, is not home. He is meeting with Professor Ellis at the moment."

Holmes' brow furrowed in response. "How odd, I just spoke with Professor Ellis and said that Professor Andrewes had to cancel the meeting for other pressing issues."

Mum's normally smooth conversation hesitated for a second before she sighed and said, "Well, there must be some reason…nevertheless Mr. Holmes I will tell him that you stopped by."

"Actually, Mrs. Andrewes, I did not come here to speak with the Professor," Holmes said lightly as his grey eyes focused on me. "I just wanted a brief word with your daughter if you don't mind."

Mum turned to me with an astonished look in her eyes before answering. I just shrugged subtly; I had no idea what he wanted.

"Well, yes, that's suitable," Mum answered. "Let me fetch you both some tea from the kitchen." With that, Mum began to walk out of the parlor while maintaining her eyes on the pair of us. When she was finally gone, Holmes still stood at the threshold while I was sitting down, rubbing my left arm.

"Have a seat, Holmes," I said tentatively. He sat down in the chair opposite me and glanced at the fire then returned his gaze on me. "What's this about, Holmes? You've made my mother awfully suspicious."

"Perhaps she has a right to be suspicious, Miss Andrewes." Holmes said lightly. I was about to speak when he began to explain. "Our outing together at your birthday celebrations has produced some unforeseen consequences."

"Such as?"

"Not only has Emily left me alone, only giving me some simpering glances here and there but some of my other admirers have backed down as well." It seems hard to believe but Holmes actually had more than one admirer and Emily just happened to be at the extreme end of that spectrum. "It is actually quite refreshing…"

"Well how fortuitous for you, Holmes. Yet what does this have to do this haphazard and truthfully unwanted visit?"

"Let me answer you with a question: Has Keating backed off?" He asked in a grave nature.

Actually and curiously, he had not. In fact Aidan was much more persistent and often asked me questions about Holmes and our "relationship" together. It was beginning to get very annoying. My silence seemed to tell the truth and Holmes nodded as he stretched his lithe legs out in front of him.

"It appears he has not. Well, Miss Andrewes, I will speak quickly before your mother comes back with that tray of tea." He proceeded to lean forward and lowered his voice so that only I can hear him—if my mother or anyone else at the house happened to be eavesdropping. "I propose that…well, I do not know how to put this…well…"

I could not believe this but Holmes was actually at a loss for words. I could not help but smile for Holmes seemed like the last man in the world who would lose the ability of speech. Seeing my smile, his eyes bulged and he smacked his hand impatiently on the arm of the chair.

"I apologize, Holmes, but you seem to be at a loss for words," I managed to say soberly then cleared my throat. "What is it that you wanted to…propose?"

"Succinctly, I propose that we court each other."

That managed to wipe my smile off of my face. "What the bloody hell are you talking about? Absolutely not, I am—"

"Let me explain it to you first," Holmes sliced through my blubbering attempt at a tirade. "This would only be for the sake of convenience. If we agree to this, Aidan will cease to bother you considering that he is from a family with a military background and noble upbringing. If we announce our courtship, it would be considered disgraceful if he acts otherwise."

It was pragmatic at best and torture at its worst. However, a small voice in my head told me that it did make sense. The small voice was being overpowered by a larger and more powerful voice in my head.

"No, Holmes, that would be just way too odd and…"

"Listen to me, a young lady your age is bound to be asked by others about her social standings. Most people will have their eyes on you not only because of your family's reputation but also because you happen to be—from an entirely objective perspective, mind you—an attractive young lady. I assure you Aidan will not be the last suitor knocking on your door." He then paused and in a lower voice said, "I know that you do not intend to get married."

"How do you know about my intentions?" I asked.

Unfortunately, before Holmes could answer my question I heard Mum's footsteps and conversation between us stopped altogether. After a few moments, Mum came in with Josephine behind her bearing a tray of tea. Mum smiled while as she took a seat on the excessively upholstered settee.

"Please, Mr. Holmes, Josephine makes really good scones." Mum offered Holmes the plate. "The jam is quite fresh as well."

"Why, thank you, Mrs. Andrewes." Holmes said in a kind voice with a smile that actually bordered on charming. "However, I must decline as I realized I have to study for some important examinations. I am sorry that I put you through the extra trouble of preparing food for a guest who must leave so quickly."

"Oh, I absolutely understand. I do hope that the Oxford dons aren't running you into the ground." Mum said cheerfully as Holmes stood up and took his hat off the stand and Josephine retrieved his coat. "I do hope you stop by in the nearby future and perhaps with some clear warning."

"Of course," he answered as he placed the hat on his head. "Well, Mrs. Andrewes, Miss Andrewes, I bid you good day."

"Charlotte, why don't you see Mr. Holmes to the door?" Mum said as she gently pushed me towards Holmes. I nodded resignedly and walked with Holmes to the door.

I opened the door and he stepped outside, turning around to face me.

"Holmes, I still need to think about it." I whispered as I started to close the door. Holmes held the door open.

"We can talk if you come by your father's next lecture. Would that be fine?"

"Fine," I answered and then shut the door. I walked back into the parlor and returned to my seat. Mum was sipping her tea with pursed lips with an interested look upon her face.

"Well, Charlotte, he seems to be a nice boy." Mum heavily hinted as she buttered a scone.

"Ha," I laughed under my breath as I reached for my own cup of tea.

* * *

The first thing that I do when I open a book is press the pages to my nose and smell them. There is absolutely nothing more lovely to me than the scent of a book. There is a spiciness in the scent that invigorates both my body and soul. I breathed in the book—an anthology of some of John Donne's poetry—only to be stared at by the young librarian who retrieved it for me. My cheeks turning scarlet, I mumbled a brief thank you, and hustled off to one of the private desks in order to breath the words off of the page.

My ever so lovely home away from home was the ancient fortress of knowledge that was the Bodleian library. There were many days where I would enter the Bodley in bright sunshine to only reemerge in the twilight when I would have to be forced out of the building at closing. The entire staff was already familiar with me to the point where a particular station would be reserved just for me.

If there were such thing as a secluded paradise, I only had to take my bicycle and ride a few minutes to the Bodleian. The ancient hall knew the meaning of silence—they most probably were the ones that defined it in the first place. Amidst the glowing light of the gas lamps, the only communication heard were the distinguished mumbles of scholars, the scratch of a pen scrawling on paper, and the whisper of pages being turned.

I decided that John Donne was not of my taste for the moment so I left my station and nearly got myself lost within the myriad of bookshelves. After rummaging through a couple of decent books and randomly picking several tomes from the shelves, I heard a low voice near the back of the stacks conversing with another person. Now I hope you do not think of me as a busybody—my possible _suitor _Sherlock Holmes immediately comes to mind—but I would have minded my own business otherwise for the low voice that I heard was speaking in that oh-so-familiar Boston sound that could only come from one man.

"I have no idea why you bother with it. It should be none of your damn business." My father said with disdain in his voice.

"It is my business," said the other voice. The speaker was unfamiliar yet his voice was familiar for some odd reason. Then I realized that while he did not have the same dialect as Dad, the speaker spoke in a very similar dialect which ultimately meant that this man was from America. "I wouldn't have been sent here if it weren't my business. Now listen to me, Tom. There's going to be some repercussions to this. I think we're being followed and this may cause a lot of trouble…"

I had become so intrigued by the conversation that one of the books I was holding slipped out of my grasp and felt with a thud to the floor. The conversation stopped immediately after my blunder and the only thing heard was a rustling of fabric and footsteps retreating into some other part of the library. Cursing myself under my breath, I picked up the volume and walked past the two bookshelves and saw Dad leaning against the wall, his hand pressed against his forehead and looking every bit of the fifty-six years that he was.

"Dad?"

He jolted as if electricity went through him and then looked up at me. He quickly fixed a smile on his face that was mostly for appearance's sake. "Ah, Charlie, my dear. Scouting for some new material to read?"

"Who were you talking to?" I asked ignoring his question entirely.

His face blanched as he cleared his throat, his green eyes searching for an answer. "Well, it was just a colleague of mine. A mild academic discussion between two old and stubborn men, that is all. Now, what do you say we head home? We may be just in time for tea."

Perhaps I should have just dropped the interrogation but what I had heard caused me to feel slightly ill. "As far as I know, and believe me I know plenty about Oxford, but I do not think anyone else speaks in those Bostonian tones asides from you. What's going on? Who was that man you are talking to? And what does he mean that you're being followed?"

"It is not of your concern, Charlie." He said firmly as he rubbed his neck. "I assure you that I am fine and that it is not your worry."

"You didn't answer my questions." The librarian walking by the shelves raised her fingers to her lips. I lowered my voice, "Why aren't you telling me anything? From what it sounds like, you could be in danger—"

He chuckled unconvincingly. "There is nothing wrong, I promise you."

"You have been writing letters in the dead of night. You have been late for dinner several times because you had to meet with your _colleagues_ and a couple of days ago, you told Mum that you needed to meet with Professor Ellis when Sherlock Holmes told me that you had to cancel that appointment for _more important matters_. There is something—"

"It is not of your concern,"

I would have pressed on but the tone that had come out of my father's mouth was something that I had only heard on rare occasions. This was not the tone he used to gently scold James and me to stop quarreling. It was not the tone he used to chide the students in his lecture to stop talking in his class. What emerged from his throat was a voice filled with caustic scorn that automatically ceased all forms of argument, leaving the words to die in my throat. I immediately looked away and felt my cheeks burn as the grip on my books tightened.

He must have realized the effect that this had on me and his face slackened as he saw the look on my face. He reached out his hand to me, "Charlie, I'm so sorry—"

"It's none of my concern." I repeated with vitriol, his own words ravaging him as much as they did me.

With that, I threw my books onto the floor with a deafening crash and started to run away when my left leg buckled under me, causing me to trip and fall. From behind me, I heard the footsteps of my father trying to approach me, to help me up as he always did. Not this time. I quickly stood up on my own and continued running despite the throbbing pain in my knee. He obviously did not need my concern and I did not need his.

* * *

By the following Friday, Dad and I were speaking once again but a straining point had reared its ugly head and there was a sense of hesitance that I was now aware of whenever we had some sort of conversation. Once again, I had accompanied my Dad to his Friday lectures and was about to take my seat near the front when I felt a hand tug at my elbow. I whirled around and it was Aidan.

"Hello, Aidan." I greeted him. "Would you kindly let go of my arm?"

"So you and Holmes…" Aidan said with a half-hearted smile.

"What about Holmes and me?" I said as I started to walk to my seat again.

"I was supposed to escort you, Charlotte." He said vehemently.

I turned around and looked at him closely…actually smelled him really. It seemed like he had a couple of pints before lecture today.

"Aidan, you are drunk. Please talk to me when you're sober."

Aidan was about to say something else when he saw Dad began to pour himself a glass of water. He rushed over to an available seat as Dad drunk from the glass while I rushed to mine. On my way towards my seat, I passed by Holmes who gave me nothing more than a passing glance. As I sat down, Dad cleared his throat and began to lecture to his students.

After a series of questions concerning a range of topics from the ancient civilizations of Egypt to the current state of affairs under Victoria Regina, class ended where Dad gathered up his various papers and I picked up my walking stick—the one that Holmes gave me—and began to walk out with the other students.

"Charlie, dear, where are you off to?" Dad called after me as he began to dust the erasers.

"I just need some fresh air so I'm off for a walk on the grounds." I said as I exited the hall. Whether or not he said anything else I did not know for I was already outside.

Next to the door, Holmes stood leaning his slender frame against the wall. Without a single word exchanged between us, we began to walk down the hall at a reasonable distance between us so as no one could suspect anything between us.

"Quite a practical gift you gave me, Holmes." I said after some distance.

"Glad that you like it," he replied lightly. "Now, Miss Andrewes, shall we continue our conversation from the last time?"

"How did you know of my intentions?" I asked as my walking stick clacked along the stone.

"A young lady would typically put all her attentions into finding a young man to settle down and marry. That would include going to several dances or balls, dressing themselves in the finest attire, and all those typically feminine activities. Those are generally activities that would take up a majority of one's time. You, on the other hand," he stopped walking and turned to me. "You, on the other hand, seem absolutely unconcerned with the hoopla."

"That is true," I answered humorously for it was quite true. I could not imagine myself chasing after any boys. "You forgot to mention the fact that there are few men out there that want a woman who is not even in her twenties and already using a cane."

He did not say anything to that statement but instead said, "Polio is not a hereditary condition."

"I know and neither am I contagious but still..." I cleared my throat and changed the subject. "Besides, I don't want to be a lightning rod for pity and there's just too much compromise when it comes to marriage. Particularly on the woman's part," I added. "I'm far too independent for my own good. That would be my father's fault. He spoiled me with knowledge, not a good thing for a woman in this era."

He nodded his head once and then pressed onto another subject. "Miss Andrewes, what do you think of the suggestion I placed to you this week?"

"I am still not sure about it, Holmes." I replied truthfully.

I am sure that Holmes would have given me another argument as to why his idea was right when he was abruptly interrupted.

"Holmes!"

We both turned and saw Aidan approaching us, looking extraordinarily disheveled with his untucked shirt, loose tie, and messy hair. He stood in front of Holmes, who was taller than him. It was not much of an intimidating gesture but it was clear that he had business with Holmes.

"I challenge you to a duel, Holmes." He whispered dangerously. Holmes looked entirely unconcerned.

"Whatever for?" I asked though I already knew the answer.

"He knew that I already had feelings for you but he went ahead and stole your heart." He said without even looking in my direction, his blue eyes locked on cold grey ones.

I could not help but snort at Aidan's words.

"Do not snort, Miss Andrewes, it is unbecoming of you." Holmes said then added in a clear voice, "Very well and if we are to follow the code duello, as the challenger I shall choose the weapons. Let us use foils, Keating, to settle our score."

"Very well, then. I shall meet you within the half hour then, Holmes." And with that, Aidan stalked away leaving Holmes slightly amused and I in an apoplectic state.

"Holmes!" I spluttered indignantly. "This is degrading! I do not want you and Aidan to fight over me."

"Oh nonsense," Holmes retorted at my annoyance. "After all, do not all young women want men to fight over them?" My silence and burning green stare said no. He understood. "Obviously not. Let us view it from this perspective, I am protecting your honor and mine by dueling with him. Or have you not heard of chivalry?"

Holmes had started walking at a brisk pace, leaving me to nearly run to catch up as my walking stick clacked furiously with each and every step. "While admirable, chivalry is obsolete in my understanding. It dates from the medieval period. Do you know what else comes from that time period? The rack, thumbscrews, the Catherine wheel…happen to ring a bell?"

He chuckled at my seething nature and began walking at an even faster pace. "You forget that I am quite capable with the foils. It shall be over quickly."

I sighed, wanting to thump him over the head with his gift. I picked up my skirts and ran to catch up with his large strides. We arrived at the abandoned classroom where Aidan and I had first seen Holmes fence (also where I had the weary revelation of Aidan's unwanted attentions). Holmes began to suit up while Aidan was already dressed in the white uniform and was practicing with foil in hand.

"Would you mind helping me get into this? I could never seem to get the back." Holmes asked with his back turned towards me. Grumbling over this annoying event, I resignedly buttoned up the back of the uniform as Holmes glanced back cautiously as I did so. I smoothed it out after I had finished. Holmes picked up his own foil and began warming up.

Meanwhile, word had spread surprisingly fast about this impromptu duel much to my chagrin as several groups of students began to gather around to watch this _honorable_ situation. One of my dear friends Katherine from St. Hilda's was among the students who immediately plopped herself right next to me.

"So what's this I hear about a duel?" She asked in that lovely musical tone of hers.

"Oh, Katie, these _boys_ felt that they just needed to fight and they are making idiots out of themselves in the process." I said.

Katie's hazel eyes scanned the two fellows quickly before turning to me. "Aidan Keating, from what I heard, fancies you while Sherlock Holmes…did he not escort you to your birthday party?" When I did not answer, she began to laugh. "Oh dear, Charlotte, they are fighting over you, aren't they?"

"Oh hush, Katie." I mumbled while my scarlet complexion gave everything away. She laughed a little bit more at my expense and then quieted down as one of the older students began to speak.

Essentially, he laid out the rules and managed over the duel itself, he being the third party and all. He ordered the competitors to shake hands and they did. Aidan looked as though he were attempting to crush Holmes' hand though whether he succeeded or not, I could not tell for his face was unreadable. They retreated to their sides and placed the mask over their faces. They then saluted each other and with the call, "Fence!", the boys went and did so.

Despite Aidan's apparent drunkenness when I had spoken to him before, it appeared that he was quite capable with the foil as he managed to parry much of Holmes' advances and lunges. Yet that was all Aidan could do: parry. Holmes was much quicker and more experienced that Aidan. The foil seemed like a fluid extension as Holmes fenced with relative ease. As for Aidan, one can only defend themselves for so long and it was soon clear that Holmes would have the upper-hand.

Yet on my part, I admire fencing and watching those with relative skill but I do not appreciate being cast as some sort of prize that one of these men will win if they triumph over them. I needed to put a stop to this and found my opportunity when the student mediator became distracted by the attentions of a pretty young thing. Aidan was directly in front of me, not watching his feet, and from his movements he still had traces of alcohol in his system. Surreptitiously, I laid my walking stick in front of his feet and soon enough, Aidan tripped over the staff and fell on his back.

The audience of students was in an uproar over the sudden turn in events. The student mediator wrenched his attentions away from his perspective paramour and went to check on Aidan while Holmes unmasked himself giving me an odd yet unreadable look. When it was clear that Aidan was out and Holmes was the winner, I walked out of the classroom but was stopped soon enough.

"Why did you trip him?" Holmes inquired more out of curiosity rather than the anger I would have predicted.

"Firstly, he was drunk. I could practically smell the alcohol coming out of his pores. Secondly, I told you that I do not want to be fought over and I found the best solution for both of you." I explained as I lifted up my walking stick and looked at it admiringly. "You know, sometimes there is an advantage to being a cripple."

Holmes wiped off the sweat from his brow. "Well, Miss Andrewes, I have an appointment with my don. Impatient fellow so I mustn't be late."

He had turned his back and began to walk away when I called out to him. He turned back around and I quickly ran towards him.

"I believe that there is a certain _question_ you need to ask my parents. This will be strictly professional and out of our own convenience, correct?" I said as I extended my hand.

"Nothing more and nothing less, my dear Miss Andrewes," he said accepting my hand and shaking it.

"Oh, and Holmes?"

"Yes?"

"Don't belittle me."

"Only when the situation calls for it, Miss Andrewes."

* * *

Later that night, I passed by my father's study before going to bed. The door was closed yet I could see from the crack below that the lamps were on and he was obviously working. The subject of his work I did not know and doubted that he would ever tell me. Ordinarily and at any other time, I would barge in and greet him warmly but that now familiar feeling of hesitancy struck me as I raised my fist to knock on the door. Against my wishes, the wood beneath me squeaked and made my presences known.

"Charlotte?" Dad called from inside.

Hesitance still filled me and while I wanted to spend time with him, I was frustrated at his surreptitious nature.

Deciding against it, I sighed and decided to go to bed.

Oh, I wish he would trust me and tell me.

If only he had.


	8. The Runner

**_A quick correction: The beginning of the story actually occurs during Michaelmas term (October--December) instead of Hilary term (January--March) like I wrote before. _**

**_Thank you, H.M. Chandler, for your wonderful advice. I will certainly keep that in mind._**

**_And I also hope it's clear that the reason Holmes struck the bargain in the previous chapter was because there were other young women asides from Emily that were after his attentions. His courting with Charlotte would detract from those attentions. I wrote a line about it in that chapter but perhaps it wasn't as clear as I thought it was._**

**_Anyways, enough of my chattering and let's get to the chapter...oh and please keep reading and reviewing. _**

* * *

"Firecrackers, James! That's cold!"

It was expected after the holiday season and it had an extraordinarily sobering effect knowing that after New Year's celebrations, I would be sitting in the clinic. I had been sent to London for my annual torture session—I mean check-up—under my brother, the eminent Dr. James Andrewes. It still felt odd hearing that this rascal who used to chop the heads off of my rag dolls when I was a little girl being referred to as formally as _Dr. Andrewes_. He took away the glacial stethoscope and breathed on it, attempting to warm it up. He set about to put it back, I recoiled away from the instrument.

"It has your germs on it now." I reasoned as he looked at me strangely.

"Stop being such a baby, Charlotte." He scolded, sounding very much like Dad at this point. I sighed and acquiesced. He placed the stethoscope on my chest and listened to the sounds within me. After a minute, he took off the stethoscope and placed it on the cabinet.

He shook his head with a large grin on his face as he turned back around. "'Firecrackers'? Blimey, Charlie, I think you've been tagging along with Dad too much."

"This coming from the boy that is a spitting image of him," I retorted as he began to check my reflexes. I lifted my skirts so that he could check them and noted the difference between my healthy right and withered left leg. I remember when he had first seen me after I was healthy; he winced visibly at the disjointed image of my legs. Now he did no more than blink. After he was done, he jotted some things down.

"All right, Charlotte, you seem physically fine." He proclaimed as he adjusted his spectacles. "Now, just to make sure, let me ask a few questions. Have you felt any different lately? Muscle weakness in your arms or legs? Breathing problems? Have you felt exhausted?"

"Exhausted but it's most likely from me staying up until three finishing a book and then the train trip here." I explained. "Otherwise, I don't feel any different. Are we done here?"

"Almost done, Charlotte, don't be so impatient. Now, I remember I told you that exercise would help get some more mobility in your limbs. I know Dad bought you the bicycle, is it working at all for you?"

"Honestly, I still limp." I said as I stood up and took my walking staff that was leaning on the opposite wall. "The leg is still as withered as I've ever seen."

He looked down at my words and cleared his throat. "It's to be expected from what I know. Same with your left arm, it will still look…look like that. It's just best to exercise, gain more mobility in your limbs. Does your leg feel stronger at least?"

"It's better than the last time you checked on me." I said in all honesty. Last year, I could barely walk while now I could limp along at a comfortable pace.

"What about your arm?"

"I still can't write with it. It's not as strong as my leg. Any suggestions to what I should do to exercise it? I do hope it's nothing strenuous." I said with a sheepish smile which James reciprocated. James knew how lazy I was.

He scratched his head, thinking. "Try out archery."

"Yeah, I could imagine Mum letting me try out archery in the backyard." I said sardonically as he began to usher me out of his office. "Would have to ask Dad…so archery?"

"I think it's perfect for you. It focuses on your arms and well, you're a bit of a perfectionist so I'm sure that you'll enjoy trying to get bull's-eye upon bull's-eye." As he opened the door, I felt the light drizzle of rain. Pulling out my parasol, we stood on the corner waiting for a hansom to pass by. "I hope you're getting sleep at Anne's house. I hear the baby keeps crying all night."

"Oh, she's a cute little thing, their daughter. Veronica looks just like Anne but with Geoff's eyes." I said, remembering Anne and Geoff's month old daughter.

"How about you, Charlotte? Are you and Mr. Holmes going to have a visit from the stork anytime soon?" James said impishly.

Giving him a look of utter shock, I elbowed him sharply. "James! First of all, we would have to get married, which is still unthinkable at this point. I mean, we've only courted for two months or so. Secondly—"

"A moment, James, may I ask?"

James and I turned at the voice, which came from a male. The owner's voice was a young man with wavy light brown hair and the beginnings of a moustache on his face. When he came up to us, James practically towered over him while I was a slight inch taller. From the look on his face, he seemed like a friendly man.

"James, I briefly wanted to consult something with you but seeing as you're occupied at the moment…"

"Oh, no not at all, John," James said warmly as he clasped the other doctor's shoulder. "I was just seeing my sister off."

"Oh so this must be the sister you've been speaking of." John said, his eyes twinkling warmly as he extended his hand. I accepted it kindly for I could not help but smile at the young man's friendly demeanor. "The name's Watson, my dear lady. Dr. John H. Watson."

"Charlotte Andrewes, Dr. Watson." I introduced myself just as a hansom stopped right in front of us. "Well, it appears time has aspired against me. I bid you adieu and hope to meet you again. Good-bye, James."

"Bye, Charlie," he waved as I departed and went back inside with Dr. Watson to consult.

* * *

"Your doctor's appointment, did it go well?" Holmes asked from the bench he sat in a week after my brief trip to London.

"Went as it normally should—a lot of prodding and examining that ended up with nothing." I said, pulling the string back as far as I could. "Unnecessary but I am lucky that James is my doctor and he tries to make the entire affair as quick and painless as possible." With that statement, I released the tension and the arrow went straight…to the right side of the target. "Damn it."

"Your brother suggested archery for your arm?"

"Yes," I replied while I set another arrow in the bow. I closed my right eye, tried to aim for the bull's-eye, and released. However, as I released the string, the tension whipped against my arm and left an angry burn against my arm. Despite the pain in my arm, the arrow managed to get onto the actual target. I dropped the bow in dismay and began to rub my arm. "Damn it!"

"Let me see," he said getting up from his seat. Reluctantly, I extended my arm towards him. He pulled up my sleeve and examined it. "You're not holding it properly, that's why you're getting this burn on your arm." He picked up the bow and handed it back to me. "I should warn you that you'll also acquire burns on your finger as well in the future. Would you like me to show you the proper technique?"

"No," I automatically answered and snatched the bow back from him. "It's better that I learn by myself, Holmes. But thank you anyways."

He did not return to the bench but simply stood by my side and watched with those ever vigilant eyes of his. I began to draw my bow once again when Holmes stopped me and approached me.

"You are still holding the bow so you are still learning by yourself. I'm just going to redirect the way you're holding it." He gingerly took hold of my left arm and held it out straight. "You have been bending your arm every time you release it. Hold it out straight every time so you do not burn yourself. And try to widen your stance a little as well."

"All right, now back off, Holmes." I said and he took a couple of steps back. I released the string. It ended up near the previous arrow and I sighed grumpily. Stupid James, it was his idea of a joke to make me take up archery. _He was probably laughing himself silly at the moment_, I ruminated. "Holmes, would you care to fetch me the arrows on the target?"

From the look on his face, I thought he would say no but after a moment, he walked to the target and retrieved all of the arrows. He placed them back in the quiver, which was by my feet instead of on my back. I thanked him, placed an arrow on the bow and was aiming when Holmes stopped me again.

"Do you mind if I stop you again?"

"What am I doing wrong this time, Holmes?" I sighed in frustration. This was much harder than I thought it was going to be. "Let me learn on my own. You already helped me and I thank you for assisting me."

"Very well," he said as he stretched out and looked around the yard. The rain had stopped for the moment and the weather decided to behave benevolently, settling into a grey, cloudy sky with a light wind. Apollo was perched on the windowsill watching the entire sad scene.

After a few minutes, I looked over at Holmes and grudgingly said, "Oh, all right, come here so you can teach me and gloat your ever superior knowledge of archery over my feminine mind."

"I will let you know that you are the one that talked of my superior knowledge, not I." He said with a sardonic smile on his thin lips as he stepped behind me. "Place it close to the edge of your mouth like so. When you release it, follow through with your hand across your cheek." He repositioned the hand that was holding the bowstring and held it there. For some odd reason, the thoughts concerning my target faded and were replaced by the sensations of his hand against my skin. I quickly shook myself and focused on the target ahead. "Try not to rush yourself and focus on the target. Take a deep breath," I did and I also felt his breath on my neck. "And release!"

The arrow sailed towards the target and it hit the blue inner circle, much closer than I ever hit. A smile slowly blossomed on my face at my minor accomplishment.

"Oh, finally…" I murmured as I looked at that arrow. "Next time, it'll be the bull's-eye."

Holmes placed a hand on my shoulder. "Bravo, bravo,"

"Who taught you how to use a bow and arrow, Holmes? You seem to be quite skilled."

I could not see the look on his face since he was still behind me but there was a tense quality in his voice when he spoke. "I learned when I was a boy going on hunting trips with my father." There was a sense of finality in his voice that told me not to ask any further about the subject. He pressed on in another vein. "The weather is getting rather chilly so let us head back inside the house and get a warm cup of tea after that exercise."

"Thanks, Holmes, for helping despite my insistent stubborn streak."

"I did not help you, Charlotte," he had taken to calling me by my first name now that we were _courting_. "I gave you advice. That is an entirely different scenario entirely. As to your stubborn streak…well, I am afraid I cannot refute that point."

"I ought to slap you for that...or perhaps shoot you." I laughed. I then realized something that caused me to abruptly turn the conversation to another subject. "Holmes, why are you still behind me?"

He did not answer but swiftly stepped away from his previous position. Luckily he was not looking at me since the hue on my cheeks probably matched my hair. When I turned to look at him, he seemed to be inspecting the sky and its clouds.

He decided to continue the conversation as if nothing had occurred. Actually, nothing had happened really. "Judging by your aim, you'll hit your cat instead." He said, laughing with that high voice of his.

"Go ahead inside, I need to gather up my equipment." He nodded and proceeded inside leaving me with Apollo and my own confusing thoughts.

* * *

After a brief cup of tea, Holmes and I decided to venture outside for a walk and of course, to keep appearances up so that Oxford society could see that we were quite a couple. We talked about his upcoming finals while I listened. There were times when we had to stop as several of Holmes' acquaintances—not friends, I had learned that 'friend' was only reserved for special people—and some of my friends—the few that I had—who greeted us and asked about our relationship and whatnot. Of course, by now, Holmes and I had a performance locked down where he would play the adoring gentleman and I was the simpering young lady. Once the crowds were gone we would go back to conversing normally.

"Something's troubling you."

I looked at the cobblestones beneath my feet but did not answer. We continued walking for a continued length in silence aside from the clacking of my walking stick. After waving hello to another of Holmes' acquaintances, I decided to speak up.

"Is that all you're going to say? _Something's troubling me_?"

"You seem quite detached today. I just wanted to say so and maybe perhaps I could ease your mind." He answered simply.

I laughed, which sounded surprisingly brittle. "You? Ease my mind? Honestly, Holmes, you usually have the reverse effect on me."

We resumed our walking in silence. He put his hands into his pockets and glanced in my general direction. "I've noticed during your father's lectures that there is an unfamiliar face within our ranks."

"Oh?"

"About a fortnight ago, I heard you and your father having a _mild_ discussion in his study."

I winced, remembering the altercation I had, which was essentially the same as our previous argument but much more vocal and forceful than I intended it to be. Holmes had been invited to dinner that night from what I recalled. Despite my instincts, I relayed the entire affair with my father from his furtive meetings with supposed colleagues, late night epistolary sessions, and the encounter between the Bodleian bookshelves. Holmes did not act as I thought he would: biting, condescending, and overbearing. Instead, he simply bent his head down as we spoke and nodded every few minutes, his index finger resting along his mouth. After my tale was finished, he did not say anything at all.

"Do you think it's something that I should worry about?"

"Concerned," he said. "Not worried yet but his behavior is something of concern."

"Is there a difference?" I asked sardonically, glancing sideways at him. "Blimey, Holmes, can there be an actual moment where we can agree?"

He merely smiled in a derisive manner then pulled the watch out of his coat pocket. "Just watch your father, I think. Tell me if anything new develops in this affair of his. I suggest we head back home before your mother begins to suspect something."

"Oh, and what are you going to do about it? Pretend to be Scotland Yard?" I said drolly.

For the second time today, I seem to have hit something in Holmes…by accident, of course. A tension set along his jaw and a sigh escaped him. There was a brooding look of introspection in those grey eyes and I wondered what I possibly struck in him. After a moment, he cleared his throat and glanced in my direction, a genial look settling on his face.

"Better than Scotland Yard," He said with a light voice that was normal of him yet this time, there was an undertone of gravity there. Holmes peered over in my direction then said, "I can see that look in those eyes. Never mind me, Charlotte."

"What look?" I inquired innocently.

"You know what look I'm speaking of," he said with a humorous tone in his voice. I nodded in silent agreement and he nodded as well, reaching an unspoken agreement to not speak of it. "How did you get so perceptive?"

"How did you?" I retorted.

"Are you always this aggressive?" He said as he laughed dismissively.

"Sorry, Holmes, you know how I am," I said with a smile then let out a sigh. "Well, when you are stuck in a room for six months, your senses tends to be the only connection to outside world." I was unaware at the time but I had stopped on the pavement at that point.

"Lying in that bed, opening the window, I knew that it was raining outside or it had just rained by the smell. I could tell Mum had been in the garden since I saw the mud on her boots and in her fingernails. Dad would come into my room and I would see ink stains on his hands and knew he had just been writing something. When you are trapped in a room, you memorize every single detail of this space and I knew if the room had been cleaned or if someone had come in while I was sleeping. I could hear when the laborers went to work in the morning and I could hear it when they went home in the evenings…"

I let out a shallow breath and I felt a burning sensation in the back of my eyes. However I attributed to the fact that it had started to rain very hard and it was starting to get in my eyes. I glanced over at Holmes, who looked at me with an unreadable expression on his face…perhaps understanding? I could not tell. As the drops began to plummet and barrage us, Holmes immediately opened the umbrella he had brought with him. He took my arm and tucked it in his and we hurriedly ran back to my house.

* * *

I came home and after a brief chat with Mum, Holmes bid us farewell. After dinner, I excused myself and asked when Dad would come home (He had business to take care of in London). She replied that he would be home tomorrow night. I spent the rest of the night practicing scales on the piano and then reading in my room.

In my room, I examined the burn on my arm and decided to rub some cream on it and then wrapped it in bandages for the night. Hopefully that would help me learn not to hurt myself anymore when I practice in the future. I placed the walking stick in a bin with the other canes, which were covered in a layer of dust. I took _Leaves of Grass_ from the bookshelf and dived into the bedcovers to read. I flipped randomly through the pages and landed on one poem…

WHEN I read the book, the biography famous,

And is this, then, (said I,) what the author calls a man's life?

And so will some one, when I am dead and gone, write my life?

(As if any man really knew aught of my life;

Why, even I myself, I often think, know little or nothing of my real life;

Only a few hints—a few diffused, faint clues and indirections,

I seek, for my own use, to trace out here.)

And with that in my mind, I turned down my lamp, lay my cool head on the pillow, and went to sleep.

The following day passed by in a normal and routine fashion. We received a telegram from Dad telling us that he would be home around half past seven. I managed to fill my day by practicing more archery and meeting with Katie for tea. She talked about her beau for the majority of the time and often prodded me about my relationship with Holmes. Of course, I skillfully parried those questions and deflected them back towards her, which she willingly (almost too much) talked about.

Half past seven came and went without any sign of Dad. Of course, considering the winter weather and the notorious train delays on the railways, there was no need to worry.

However, when I looked at the grandfather clock in the hallway after playing some pieces on the piano, it read quarter to eleven. No weather or railway delay would make him this late. Dad would have sent a telegram or word that he would be this late and there was not a squeak out of him.

Mum seemed to have the same idea as me as I saw her pacing in the parlor and wringing her hands. I sat with her in the parlor, waiting for the clicking of the keys and the squeaking of the door opening…but there was nothing. When the clock hit half past eleven, she turned to me with a frightened look in her dark eyes and told me to tell Josephine to get the police. I went and did so, rousing Josephine and telling her to summon the police. When I finished with that, I immediately felt ill remaining in the house and I needed to get out despite my mother's feelings. I told her that I needed fresh air and would be out for a quick stroll. I snatched a coat from the stand, the walking stick from my room, and instead of the stroll I had told Mum I ran out the door.

I sprinted for some length, not knowing where I was going but I just needed to run. A variety of thoughts ran through my head from morbid to delusional, hoping that the one thing that gnawed at the back of my mind had not occurred. I ran until my left leg gave out on me. I tumbled onto the cobblestones and cursed myself, the burning sensation in my eyes returning along with the newfound pain in my knees from the fall. I surveyed my surroundings and found that I was on High Street amongst the ragamuffin students and drunks of the night. I was disoriented and vexed about what was happening with Dad.

A pair of legs stood in front of me and I looked up to see a hand reaching for me followed by a face that was quite familiar.

"Need a hand, lady?" Holmes asked with a gentleness that I had only heard from him when he was speaking with Mum.

I would have gotten up by myself in any other instance but I intuitively placed my hand in his and allowed him to pull me up. Without words, he picked up my walking stick and gave it back to me. Surprisingly, he did not say a word or asked me what I was doing running like a madwoman at midnight. He merely escorted me back home in silence…a surprisingly reassuring and silent source of stability for the moment.


	9. Hope and Hair Ribbons

**_I keep saying this but I think this was a good chapter to write. Not as fun, considering the content, but still good._**

**_Please keep reviewing! While praise is great and all, I would really like to hear some constructive criticism...pretty pretty please?!_**

* * *

It is here that I will take a brief pause in my narrative to pause and reflect as only one can do now that they have their past behind them and can now see things in a clearer lens through the aid of hindsight. First of all, as impulsive and distressed as I was…my running madly into the darkness of that terrible night at that late an hour was incredibly idiotic that I have no excuse to justify it. Holmes would have definitely ruled it as a hysterical woman's emotions wreaking havoc on her mind. Looking back, I would probably have to conclude that as well. I could have met injury—or even worse—my death at some fiend's hands. It was mere providence and sheer luck that I had fell where I had or Holmes would have never found me and taken me home.

An alarm should have rung in my mind as to why Holmes would be out at this time of night but my ragged nerves had not thought of it. This would have repercussions in the future but at that time as he walked next to me, I did not even think to question him.

The rapport that Holmes and I had developed over those two months since we started courting was odd and not only in the professional terms that the pair of us had laid out in the beginning. The faux courtship began bumpily enough as our personalities clashed at several points but after some time, we had reached a balance. We still needled each other but we also unlocked the gates between us to allow each other in…to a certain limit, of course. The man was probably constructed with many walls within that were built tough and thick. As was I, the only difference was that Holmes had many years to build those walls while I had only begun mine during my six month convalescence. As I sit here, I still cannot imagine what lay beneath those walls, even though I managed to take a glimpse inside for brief moments in time.

It is here that I also reflect the way hope can manipulate people's lives. A certain phrase comes to mind as I think of this, "To hope is very much like wearing hair ribbons. As a girl, you wear too many and when you're older, you look completely ridiculous wearing even one." It was at this time, I began to take away the ribbons in my hair.

But enough introspection and musing on my part…let us return to the story.

* * *

We stopped at a park bench at Holmes' insistence and he told me to relay what had happened. In previous instances, hesitation would have taken hold of me before I would have said anything to him but the words tumbled out in a jumbled fashion. Holmes only stopped me once to try and make my speech coherent but otherwise, he listened to everything I said. Though he was trying his best, he could not contain his annoyance at my jumbled and blubbering monologue and finally stopped me.

"The fairer sex and their emotions," he admonished, shaking his head. That was all he said although I could tell he would have liked to say more. He glanced at my hand, which was rubbing my left knee. "How painful is it?"

"I'll manage," I mustered, suddenly exhausted by the night's activities both mentally and physically.

"That does not answer my question." He replied sternly.

"It hurts but I can handle it." I insisted to Holmes' disbelieving eyes.

"May I see it?"

Bewilderment flashed across my face at his suggestion. Sensing my hesitance, he added that he would in no way take advantage of the situation and I finally agreed. Cautiously, I lifted my skirt up to my knees. Holmes took no more than a second to note the appearance of my legs, the left withered and the right healthy. He noted the scratches and the bruise on my knee and promptly pulled a handkerchief out of his coat pocket and wrapped it up. I quickly dropped my skirts when he was done. He stood up and began to walk ahead leaving me to hobble after him.

It was times like these that I was always forget how chivalrous Holmes could be and he always managed to show it at odd intervals of time.

I bid Holmes goodnight when he got home and found Mum in the parlor speaking with the police. She looked up at the sound of my entrance but when she found that it was only me, her eyes dimmed. Understandably, Dad had not yet come home. The Inspector turned to me.

"I am Inspector Hopkins, Miss Andrewes," He introduced himself. He glanced at me then flipped through his notebook. "I guess that you are Miss Charlotte Andrewes rather than Mrs. Brautigan née Andrewes?"

"Yes, I'm Charlotte Andrewes." I answered, his eyes traveling from my face to my walking stick. I cleared my throat and brought his attentions back where they should be. "Do you have some questions for me, Inspector?"

"Of course," he answered. "Would you like to take a seat, Miss Andrewes?"

"No, I am quite fine in standing, Inspector. My legs can handle it."

Inspector Hopkins merely harrumphed and mumbled a few words before beginning his line of questions; they ranged from when I had last seen my father, where was he supposed to be going, etc. I told him the details that I knew that I had told Holmes as well. He merely nodded in response. All standard questions were asked and politely thanked me for my time. Mum spoke with the Inspector further while I clambered up the stairs and got myself ready for bed. From my open bedroom door, I could hear snippets of the conversation downstairs.

"We will put all our efforts into finding your husband, Mrs. Andrewes."

"Thank you, Inspector."

"One more thing, Mrs. Andrewes, if I may ask? What is it that ails your daughter?"

And with that inquiry ringing in my mind, I slammed the door and dove into bed, almost instantaneously falling asleep without even turning down the gas.

I never knew that silence could feel so empty and forlorn.

Four days had passed and my father was still missing. The police were clearly baffled but of course, they did not allude to being so. There was no word from him at all or a note of a threatening nature. Nothing and perhaps that was what scared me most of all.

Friday had come and I stood in the lecture hall to find it empty. Of course, class had been cancelled due to my father's disappearance. James had come along with me as he could not stand the Inspector and his bumbling team swarming around our house. He had rushed over a day after Dad disappeared, leaving his practice in the capable hands of Dr. Watson. I walked over to the rostrum where he usually began his lectures and then at the paraphernalia around his desk.

"I wish Anne were here," I thought out loud.

"I know but she's not fit to travel after giving birth and whatnot," James answered as he looked around the room. "I've never seen it like this. It's so…dead."

Of course, the last word jarred me considerably and it was only after James had muttered it that he realized its effect. He rushed over and apologized to me, reassuring me that he did not think that Dad was…no, my mind could not even form the word. I merely nodded out of necessity and continued to stare at Thomas Jefferson's bust, who was staring off into the distance. _Perhaps he could find my Dad_, I mused halfheartedly.

Footsteps echoed in the hall, causing James and I to turn around. The smell of tobacco hit me first and through the smoke, I saw that it was Holmes. James walked over to him and shook hands, conversing about several things. Holmes asked about the police investigation and shook his head in a knowing manner when James told him about the lack of results. He took a drag off of the cigarette and blew the smoke out slowly through his nose when he turned towards me.

"How are you faring?" He asked.

"The police are bumbling idiots." I answered with vitriol.

He smiled a small, ironic smile. "Oh, yes, I know."

I looked around at the empty seats and remembered something that Holmes told me previously. "Um…Sherlock," I had to call him by his first name as James was within our presence. "You told me that there has been a strange person attending Father's lectures?"

He took another drag from his cigarette before answering. "Yes, strange in the sense that he was unfamiliar."

"What did he look like?" James inquired, his brow furrowed at the sound of this information.

"A tall man…actually he was around your height, Charlotte. His skin was tanned, his hair was a dark brown, and he seemed to wear secondhand clothing."

"Secondhand clothing?" James repeated to Holmes' words. "How could you tell?"

"They were a bit too large for him and seemed a little worn." Holmes said in a dismissive tone, as if it were such an easy detail to discover. "He was a robust looking individual. I never got to get a clear look at his face, however, as he always managed to sit towards the back. Nevertheless, the man would always come up and talk with your father after the lecture was over."

"Did you overhear anything that was said between them?" I asked becoming even more interested.

Holmes shook his head. "No, there was no way that I could stay and listen. Your father always managed to shoo me out of the room and they were talking in hushed tones."

James had taken a seat. "Was there anything to consider that the conversation was malevolent in any manner?"

"No," Holmes replied. "Actually, it seemed quite friendly."

We all sat in silence as James added the scent of tobacco in the air, pulling some cigarettes out of his pocket. Holmes provided him with a match and the lecture hall was soon filled with smoke. Among other things, I was lucky that I had not inherited my father's terrible asthma since I knew he would not have been able to cope with it. Yet while I did not have his asthma, there was only so much smoke I could handle and I told them that I would be walking back home.

"Well, you can't go by yourself." James reasoned as I hopped onto the bicycle.

"Oh, James, if anyone crosses me, I'll whack them with my walking stick." I said brandishing my walking stick in the air.

"I'm serious, Charlotte," James replied gravely. "Especially after what happened with Dad," he added and then after a moment turned to Holmes. "I need to get a drink or something before I go mad. Would you mind walking Charlotte home?"

"I'm not a dog, James," I retorted.

"I wouldn't mind," Holmes replied lightly.

"That's settled then." James chirped and then walked out of the lecture hall, leaving Holmes and I to our own devices. After surveying the hall once more, I began to walk out of the hall. I opened the door and looked behind me to see Holmes sitting with his eyes closed and his legs stretched before him, clearly he was in some sort of reverie. I cleared my throat and his eyes snapped open.

"Well, are you coming along?" I inquired sardonically.

Holmes stood up and walked over to the door, extending his arm towards me. "Well, of course, my lady."

"Don't belittle me, Holmes." I reprimanded as I accepted his arm.

"Of course not," came the usual clipped reply with that familiar smirk on his face.

* * *

When I arrived home, Mum had just finished talking to Inspector Hopkins. Holmes greeted Mum warmly. She greeted him as kindly as she possibly could but she wore the signs of fatigue and worry on her otherwise lovely face. Her hair was ordinarily impeccable but now hung around her in a mess. Her clothing was wrinkled as well. In a gesture unlike Holmes, he made my mother sit down on the settee and had Josephine fix her a tray of tea while he began to fix a fire in the hearth.

"You are a good young man, Mr. Holmes." She said warily as Josephine put the tea tray down. Mum poured herself a cup of tea. Her hands were shaking so much that the tea would have spilled it all over her if I had not taken it out of her hands.

"Mum, what did Inspector Hopkins say?" I asked quietly as I sat down next to her.

"They talked with Mr. Hepburn, the man he was meeting in London." She spoke in a soft and quiet voice that I needed to strain my ears to hear her properly. "Mr. Hepburn told him that your father had stayed two days with him and then Mr. Hepburn himself escorted your father to the train station and saw him off. They have Scotland Yard looking everywhere for him in London and they are searching for him here." She suddenly gripped my hands tight. "Oh, Charlotte, I don't know what to do. I'm terrified…"

I was at a loss for words. I could not tell her that the whole situation would turn out for the best since I did not know and was slowly becoming less optimistic. I was searching for something to say when it seemed that someone else had spoken them for me.

"We can only hope for the best, Mrs. Andrewes." Holmes said his eyes gazing into the fire. "That is the only thing that we could do and it is no use to speculate what could be happening for it does not do us any good."

Mum managed to smile. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes. I can see why my Charlotte fancies you so."

Astonishment briefly replaced my anxiety and vexation at her last statement. Holmes merely smiled good-naturedly at my mother's compliment and continued to look into the fire as if there were untold depths within. I turned back to Mum.

"Are you feeling well, Mum?"

She patted my arm lovingly. "I am feeling slightly better, Charlotte. If you do not mind, I need to lie down for awhile. I am terribly exhausted by all this."

"Of course, Mum. You deserve some rest today." I nodded and she excused herself from the parlor. When Mum had left, Holmes stood from his seat and began to look around the room.

"Holmes?"

"Hmmm?" He mumbled as he walked over to the bookshelf to view the collection of books my father had collected over the years. He then wandered over to the piano and inspected it.

I walked over and put a hand on his shoulder. He turned his head back towards me. "Thank you," I whispered.

He just nodded, quickly clasped his hand over mine, and returned to walking around the room. He spotted my father's violin case in the corner and made to open it when I stopped him.

"Don't,"

"I merely want to see what it looks like…if you do not mind, of course." After some thought, I conceded and he gingerly pulled out the antique violin out of its case. "I've heard of your father's skill with the violin." Then his eyes lit up with excitement as he exclaimed, "Can this be? It couldn't possibly…a Stradivarius violin?"

I smiled though there was a slight jab of pain as I remembered my father. "He got it as a present from the music professor from Baillol."

Holmes looked at it admiringly for a moment longer then reluctantly began to put it back into its case. He was about to shut the case when I stopped him.

"If you do not mind, could you please play something?"

He pulled the Stradivarius out of the case again and placed it on his chin. Taking the bow into his hands, he paused before putting it against the strings and began to play. He scraped the bow against the strings, producing a melancholy chain of notes, which developed into a jaunty and light tune that was not only familiar but I had accompanied my father on this piece many times.

Holmes saw the look of recognition in my eyes as I approached the piano and began to play. It had been ages since I had last played but the Mozart returned to me as though I had only played it yesterday. As soon as I joined in, Holmes seemed to become more animated in his playing, his head bobbing to the rhythm of the piece. I surprised myself as I was able to play the piece without a mistake. It was at that moment when I was applauding myself when I hit the wrong note.

Immediately, Holmes stopped playing and glowered at me. My cheeks turned red, both in embarrassment and irritation.

"I haven't practiced in awhile." I said, regretting the whine in my voice. Holmes merely lifted an eyebrow in response. "Well, if you're so talented, Holmes, then show me what you can play on the piano."

"Very well," he placed the violin back into its case and took a seat next to me on the piano. He stretched his arms out, placed his hands on the keys, and began to play. I swear that I will never see the limits or the depths of this man for he played quite well. I recognized the tune as a piece by Chopin and every single note was perfect. After a few minutes he ended his piece and then turned towards me. "It is your turn now, I believe."

I laughed with mirth. "Of course, it is." I stretched out my fingers and wiggled them just before I laid my fingers on the ivory keys. I then began to play an elaborate glissando of notes and then paused, taking a quick glance at Holmes before I began to play a sophisticated version of…_Frère Jacques_.

Hearing the introduction, he nodded appraisingly at my skill. Then when I reached the elementary song (even as I sang the song softly), the look on his face turned into one of extreme confusion. Then, he understood the joke and his face broke in laughter. It was not polite laughter but laughter in its true essence. He buried his hands in his face, laughing loudly at my joke. I was naturally surprised by this sudden show of emotion on Holmes' part and then I too joined in his laughter.

Our laughter was interrupted when the bell from the front door rang. I excused myself from my seat and went to answer the door. I opened the door and saw that it was a clear night and a pleasant breeze flew into the hallway. I saw that it was Inspector Hopkins.

There was still shards of laughter in my voice as I spoke, "Good evening, Inspector Hopkins."

"Evening, Miss Andrewes," he said gravely. "Could you please tell your mother that she needs to come with us?"

"Of course," I said, giggling when I heard Holmes play _Frère Jacques_ on the piano. I woke up Mum and after some minutes she came downstairs and spoke to the Inspector.

"Good evening, Inspector Hopkins. What brings you here at such a late hour?" Mum greeted them politely.

Inspector Hopkins took off his bowler hat. "Mrs. Andrewes, I need you to come with me, if you please."

"And where shall we be going, Inspector Hopkins?" Mum asked as she wrapped her coat closer to her body.

The Inspector swallowed visibly and I immediately knew there was something terribly wrong. This was not some bumbling attempt to look like they were accomplishing something. I saw the Inspector's hands wringing the brim of his bowler hat. Holmes had stopped playing and now stood next to me, listening to what the Inspector was saying.

"The morgue, Madam," he murmured softly.

Mum immediately fell towards the ground as if she had been punched in the gut. Luckily, Inspector Hopkins was there to catch her before she hurt herself. A terrible moan emerged from her petite body that echoed throughout that wintry night. She mumbled something through her tears and Inspector Hopkins attempted to console her while he escorted her to the carriage.

As soon as those words had left the Inspector's lips, my breath was immediately taken away. I felt terribly numb from head to toe, as if I had been dumped in a bucket of ice water. My knees turned watery and for the second time in a month, I considered myself lucky to be a cripple for I had something to support myself. I watched Mum's retreating back followed by Inspector Hopkins.

"Charlotte,"

I had forgotten that Holmes was next to me at that point and I visibly jumped in fright at the sound of his voice. He rubbed my back in an effort to calm me down. When he had stopped rubbing my back I instinctively gripped both of his hands in mine.

"Please come with me," I whispered. "I cannot do this alone."

"Of course," he replied softly.

And with those words, we entered the carriage and much to my surprise, I did not let go of his hand until we came to our unfortunate destination…and neither did he.


	10. Sheer Helplessness

**_Terribly sad chapter, this is. And I've actually hit double-digit chapters, wow..._**

**_And I do want to hear from my readers about anything! Tell me what's right, tell me what's wrong (in a polite way, please), what I can improve on, or if you actually like this story._**

* * *

The chill of the night permeated through the brick fortress that was the mortuary. The room Inspector Hopkins had corralled us in was a small workroom with several shelves lining against the wall, which were stocked with different sorts of chemicals and embalming liquids. In front of us stood a large and wide table and upon it was something that filled us all with dread and filled the room with a putrid scent. I had to pull out a handkerchief and put it in front of my nose to mask the smell.

Mr. Firth, the police surgeon, entered through a pair of curtains at the side. He looked every bit like the man who would have this type of occupation. His middle-aged face wore a permanent look of gravity on his sallow face and his back seemed hunched with the burden of bearing bad news. He polished his spectacles and then put on gloves before turning to us with a heavy sigh.

"Mrs. Andrewes, I presume?" His reedy voice asked my mother, who held a handkerchief to her mouth with a shaky head. Unable to physically answer, she nodded her head in assent but did not look at Mr. Firth. Her eyes were instead fixated on what was on the table in front of us and what hid underneath the white sheet on the table.

Mr. Firth sighed deeply and rubbed his eyes. "I'm sorry to bring you here, Madam. We need you to identify the body, if you please." And without further notice, he pulled away the top half of the sheet and revealed an image that would haunt my slumbers for the rest of my living days.

It was…yet was not…my father. My mind immediately recognized the black hair that had only just begun to grey, the Roman nose, each and every freckle on his pale skin. I knew every single line and wrinkle on that man's face. That was the essence of my father and yet this could not be my father. His bright green eyes—the same as mine—were now swollen and inflamed savagely. His skin seemed swollen and white foam exuded out of his nostrils and mouth.

Mum swayed visibly on the spot and that was enough identification for Mr. Firth. He placed the sheet back over my…the body. She tried to speak but the macabre image that she had seen added with the nerves and stress that she had endured the past four days. She soon fainted and Inspector Hopkins had caught her before she could injure herself.

I myself had begun to sway but I quickly grabbed hold of the counter with my free hand. Holmes glanced over in my direction.

"I'm fine," I whispered hoarsely through the handkerchief. However, I was quite far from all right.

As for Holmes, he had taken a look at the body and recoiled, jerking his head away from the table and refused to look at it any further. For the first time, I looked at those grey eyes and saw fear.

Inspector Hopkins placed Mum in a chair that Mr. Firth had dragged in and seeing that I was the only family that was left in the room, he decided to tell me what had happened to my father.

"He was found in the Cherwell, Mrs. Andrewes, by some students who were most likely off carousing and the like. Thought it was some sort of joke, they did but when they realized it was a body, they reported it to us. While Mr. Firth still has to conduct an official autopsy, it is most likely that he was beaten, stabbed several times, and then dumped into the river to be left dead—"

I never got to hear the rest of Inspector Hopkins' sordid tale since I bolted out of the suffocating room. With every word of his tale, I felt as if my throat were constricting. In my haste, I did not even take my walking stick with me, dropping it the moment I ran out of the room with Inspector Hopkins' yelling after me, "Young lady! Young lady!"

Outside the mortuary and on the pavement, I breathed in my first deep breath and suddenly everything that I had just seen and heard rammed into me with unbelievable force. My knees buckled and right there in the gutter, I began to vomit.

I threw up until I was coughing up little more than bile. Hot trails of tears streamed down my face and I could not help but curse at myself for crying. Dad…oh, Dad, I would never hear his voice whether it would be in a lecture hall or whispering in my ears, telling me some private joke. I would never see that all-knowing smile or feel his hands on my head when he wanted me to grasp some important point. I coughed and once again, I vomited again even though there was nothing left in me.

"Charlotte!"

I slowly looked up and saw James running down the street, his face mirroring the anguish on my own. When he reached me, he squatted near me (at a reasonable distance), observed the vomit in the gutter, and the dried tears on my face.

He gently touched my arm and grasped it in his hand. "I came home and Josephine told me where you lot had gone. What has happened?"

"She has not the strength to divulge that information." I did not even need to turn around to see who had spoken on my behalf. Holmes added authoritatively, "Your mother is in a much worse condition, Dr. Andrewes. I suggest that you tend to her while I see to your sister."

He made to stand up but I had begun coughing again. He held my arm tighter but I managed to shake him off.

"James, go. I'll be taken care of and Mum is in a much sadder state." I said softly.

"Right," James finally agreed. He rubbed my back and said sadly, "Oh, Charlie, I—"

"My name's Charlotte, James." I sliced through his words icily as that diminutive of my name had pierced through my heart, remembering that I would never hear his voice call me again. "It's not Charl—my name is Charlotte."

James looked back at me, hurt by my words but understood and started walking away from me, his receding footsteps being replaced by another pair of footsteps walking towards me. In my peripheral vision, I saw Holmes' shadow fall upon me.

I closed my eyes and saw the ghastly image of the body. I squeezed my hands into fists and slammed them against the pavement, as if trying to shatter the image in my mind. "DAMN IT!"

Holmes did nothing more than stand next to me and watch my behavior. Immediately, I saw this as cruel and hated him for this inaction on his part. Yet now as I write this, I now see that it was not out of cruelty but sheer helplessness. I doubt that the young Sherlock Holmes knew how to treat women as he later did in many of Dr. Watson's chronicles.

After some time had passed, Holmes pulled out my handkerchief and handed it back to me. I took it in my hands and accepted it wordlessly, using it to wipe my face. Seeing my acceptance of the handkerchief as a good sign, he attempted to return my walking stick. Unlike before, I shook my head and got up on my own accord. He took hold of my arm but when he touched me, I flinched as though he had struck me. He dropped his hand and started to walk ahead. After a few seconds, I slowly began to follow him.

Holmes led me home. Upon entering, Josephine saw my destitute condition and began badgering me with questions. Holmes cut through her concerned interrogation and ordered her to draw a warm bath and then fix some hot chocolate. Josephine nodded and before going off to do her duties, she gave me a brief concerned look. Holmes led me upstairs after Josephine.

"The bath is ready, Mr. Holmes." Josephine said when we reached the top of the stairs. He thanked her kindly and she went off to fix the hot chocolate. When she had gone, he pulled a flask out of his coat pocket and unscrewed it.

"Do not say a word of this to your mother or brother." He murmured as he pressed it into my hands. "Take a sip of this. This may help you calm down."

"Yes, Holmes," I assented automatically and drank half of its contents, my eyes fixated on the flask. As soon as it spilled down my throat, I began to cough and found that he had given me brandy. I practically threw it back to him and he stowed it back into his pocket. He then opened the bathroom door and led me inside.

"I would like you to clean yourself up now. I shall be in your room if you need me. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Holmes," I answered yet again but this time I looked at him. Fear had returned in his eyes but I think it was not because of the night's events but of my state of mind. I normally would not have followed any of his orders without some sort of argument on my part. I had merely acquiesced to his orders. I think that was what frightened him the most that night for he knew immediately that there was something wrong with me.

Reluctantly, he left me in the bathroom. I stripped out of my clothing and sunk into the cocoon of warm water. I laid inside the tub for so long that Holmes knocked on my door twice and asked if I was all right. I answered yes each time. After drying myself off and running a comb through my hair, I wrapped my robe around me and went into my room.

Holmes had seated himself by the window with a cigarette in one hand and an ashtray sitting by the windowsill. I saw that it was filled to the brim with the ends and ash. I saw that Josephine had laid out my nightclothes on my bed.

"Could you turn around please?" I asked. Holmes obligingly walked to the farthest corner away from me (with no reflective surfaces) and I changed into my nightdress. I cleared my throat and he turned back around, resuming his position by the window and approaching me no further.

Holmes pointed towards the nightstand. "Josephine fixed you a cup of hot chocolate. It's supposed to be your favorite from what I hear."

I saw the porcelain cup filled with the steaming liquid. I took a few sips out of courtesy and then put it back down. After taking a drag from his cigarette, he took off his coat and called for Josephine. She soon came into the room and immediately went to my side, checking if I had any fever.

"Josephine, I shall tell you that I will be staying here until Doctor and Mrs. Andrewes' return. I do not want to cause any alarm on the staff's part. I just believe that it would not be right to leave young Miss Andrewes by herself."

"I understand, Mr. Holmes. Would you like me to fix the guest room for you tonight?" She asked as she brushed the loose strands of my hair away from my face as she always did when I was a child.

"I shan't be sleeping tonight, Josephine." He answered and just as she was about to kindly rebuke, he sliced through her words. "I am quite all right, I assure you. I just do not need any sleep." He finally said, "Thank you, Josephine."

Josephine nodded dubiously, her forehead wrinkled by Holmes' unconventional proclivities, and finally exited. As old-fashioned as she was, she could not argue with his sharp logic. Holmes returned to his seat, looking out the window as though it would tell him some answers.

"Will you really stay?" I asked feebly. He did not seem to hear me at first for he did not answer right away.

After awhile, he turned towards the sound of my voice. "Yes,"

"Why?" I asked as I was taken aback by this show of…kindness on my part.

He sighed and when he spoke, there was a melancholic tone in his voice. "Because I too know how it feels to lose someone and feel utterly alone."

I was about to ask who this was when he abruptly turned down the gas lamps, leaving us in utter darkness except for the moonlight shining through the window. He walked back over to the window and continued to look at it until I closed my eyes and reluctantly went to sleep with visions of pallid corpses chasing me in my nightmares crying, "Help me, Charlie! Help me, please!"

* * *

The funeral took place a week later. Our home was filled with many of our relatives. Few of my relatives on my father's side were able to attend due to the abruptness of his death resulting in the fact that they were unable to reserve passage from Boston to Oxford. My Uncle Ben, my father's older brother, was able to make it and stayed very much by my side during his visit. Anne and Geoffrey managed to trek their way back for this unfortunate occasion. Much of the Oxonian community had attended the church service, filling up the Christ Church Cathedral. We buried him in Holywell Cemetery. 

The coffin laid out in front of us while our family sat in front, on view for the rest of the world. A gravestone had been carved for him and as I read it, it was then that his death became reality.

_Thomas Francis Andrewes  
__Beloved Husband and Father_

_Born 14 September 1827—Died January 24, 1883_

_"Dost thou love life? Then do not squander time; for that's the stuff life is made of."_

During that funeral, I did not cry. It was not because I absolutely refused to. That night when I saw his body had wrung the entirety of my tears out of my body. I was too exhausted to shed anymore tears.

It should be of note that Holmes did not attend the funeral. Yet, I did not find myself offended by this. I thought of what he had said to me that night. Who had Holmes lost? Yet as I asked myself this, I knew that I would never hear him utter an answer.

After the various hymns and words by the priest, the casket was buried into the ground. My Uncle Ben embraced me tightly and hobbled away with the other mourners—he too a cripple but due to the less serious malady called gout. Everyone began to disperse around me while I remained still. In the corner of my eye, I saw an unfamiliar figure.

I turned toward the figure, standing at a far distance. He seemed to have been overlooking the entire ceremony. His face was obscured by a wide-brimmed hat but I saw that he was a tall and robust figure wearing ill-fitted clothing. His hands were folded in front of him and his skin appeared to be tan. After a few moments, he walked away and disappeared into the crowd of mourners.

It was not until late that night—for I had not been able to sleep since that dreadful night—that I realized that the figure had matched the description of the man Holmes described coming to Dad's lectures.


	11. Speak the Speech

Two months had passed. The pewter hue of the winter skies were replaced by spring's robin's egg blue and the light green of fresh leaves. Like the seasons, life had swung forward and continued down its set path. For our family, life was begrudgingly slow in its paces with false starts and fallacious hopes.

Essentially, the police—after a month of investigation—found nothing concerning my father's murder. They found no clues, no evidence, or no suspects whatsoever. Though Inspector Hopkins vowed that he and his officers would continue investigating yet judging from the look in his eyes, it was only said out of solace.

I saw very little of Holmes for those two months. He would manage to visit every two weeks for tea and it was a nice break from the dreary atmosphere that always hung over the house. However with his impending and grueling exams (as he would be graduating at the end of Trinity term) and my turning into a recluse since Dad's death, very few words passed between us.

One day, my dear friend Katherine decided to take a break from her bluestocking duties and pay me a visit. I heard her musical tones coming from the doorway and I tentatively walked a few steps down to see her. As soon as she walked into the hallway, her face glowed with that lovely smile of hers.

"Oh, Charlotte, how are you, dear?" She greeted me enthusiastically.

There was no way that I could equal her enthusiasm but I managed to smile and greet her genuinely. "Hello, Katie, this is a surprise."

Josephine came over and took Katie's hat and coat. "I'm sorry, Charlotte. It's just that I had not seen you since…" She stopped abruptly, not wanting to say that the last time she had seen me was at the funeral. She smiled sheepishly. "I haven't seen you in quite a long time, that is."

"Well, Katie, I would be happy to visit you but honestly, I'm quite a wreck." One of the benefits of being a recluse was the practical disregard of one's appearance. I wore an old dress with my hair tied in a loose, messy plait and to top it off a pair of ratty slippers on my feet. However, with Katie in her most _de rigueur_ of garments (perhaps she had been out with her beau earlier), I could not very well go downstairs. "If you're willing to wait, I just need to get dressed."

"Of course," she said as she smoothed her own dress unconsciously.

I disappeared from the staircase and after a quick change into an adequately tidy white blouse and an old yet comfortable skirt. After brusquely brushing through my tangled hair and tying it up in a bun, I emerged more or less presentable. Josephine had kindly set down a tray of tea along with some muffins on the table. Katie had already helped herself to some tea and a blueberry muffin when I came in.

"I hope you did not mind that I helped myself to some of Josephine's wares." She said after swallowing a fluffy morsel of blueberry. She wiped her hands with the cloth napkin and then looked up at me with those lovely eyes. "So how have you been?"

It was such a normal question yet I knew by the tone that there were hidden implications to her question. I bluntly answered, "Well, I'm not planning to commit suicide, if that's what you mean."

A grimace crossed across her face. "Oh, Charlotte, I'm just concerned about you. I mean, you rarely go out of your house and you're not taking care of yourself—I mean, I know you do not really care for fashion but I've never seen you in your pajamas past noon. You're not even going out with Mr. Holmes anymore and I know that was enjoyable for you…"

I resisted the enormous temptation to snort. If it had not been for my disability and the lackluster reputation that actresses garner, I would have been perfect for the stage. Yet there was a minute amount of truth in her words, there were some moments that I actually enjoyed my time with Holmes. I let her carry on her monologue for awhile and when she finally wound down, I spoke.

"Katherine, I appreciate your concern." I began. "Honestly, though, Her Majesty Queen Victoria has been mourning her husband's death for more than a decade and you're not telling her to snap out of it."

For a moment, she resembled a fish out of water gaping for oxygen. "You weren't rude either. It seems that your manners went the same way as your father."

My eyes bulged at the last comment and hers did as well. The main difference was that I reacted out of rage and she reacted out of shock for her own words. I wanted to take my walking stick and smash it against her head. She saw the stiffening of my shoulders and my white knuckles and guessed as much.

"P-please, Charlotte, I-I-I did not mean to say such a nasty thing. Forgive my gaucheness; I am just so concerned for you. You were always so lively and everything and now…"

"It's to be expected, Katie," I said gently. "I am absolutely disheartened by the attempts of the police. My father's murder is seemingly unsolvable and no one has been apprehended. And last but absolutely not least, I just lost the most important person in my life. Does that not at least account for some insanity on my part?"

"Well, I'm sure it does." She said, surprised by the candid nature of my speech. "I'm sorry…could we just start this whole conversation over? I've just shoved my giant boot into my mouth."

"That's fine," I said, though in any other situation, I would have thrown her out the door. When we resumed our conversations, I soon realized that I was quite lonely. Such a simple observation but it had a profound effect on me. She spoke about her studies and her various extracurricular activities and I basically allowed her to dominate the conversation as while I missed company, it was the comfort rather than the interactions involved.

"So how is Mr. Holmes?" She asked me after regaling her own tales about her beau.

"Extremely occupied with his upcoming peer review," I answered vaguely since that was all I knew of his activities. "I have only seen him intermittently after the funeral. The last time I saw him was nearly a month ago for dinner."

"I see but I can tell that you're still fond of him."

"How so?" I asked out of curiosity, wondering how vast her social acuity could be.

"Your walking stick, you still use it. I had never seen you use anything to help you walk before he gave it to you."

I allowed myself to smile as an answer. It would be up to her to decipher what I meant by my smile. Her clever observation took me by surprise nevertheless. The only reason I did not even use any implements previous to this particular walking stick was because many of the canes that I had been provided with resembled those that doddering elders use. It was more for the sake of my own vanity and its practicality than its sentimental value that I used it.

She took my smile as that she had guessed correctly. "He must be a nice man underneath all that cold intelligence. I mean, he seems polite and all but he's not really a…well, how should I put this…he's not exactly friendly, if you know what I mean."

"He chooses his friends wisely, that's all." I replied diplomatically.

"Oh, and speaking of your beau, Holmes…" Again I had to hold back the temptation to snort. "I hear that he will be participating in the drama society's performance of _Hamlet_."

This time, I actually snorted. "My Holmes…I mean Sherlock?" Damn it, I was rusty when it came to acting like a couple. "Acting in a play? Why, he never told me a single thing about this."

"He has not told you anything? How odd…I wonder why he would not tell you." She said, wrinkling her forehead. "If you are not doing anything tonight, Charlotte, perhaps you and I could watch the show."

"Well, Katie, I really don't know about that..." I began to say my normal automatic response to any social event when she interrupted.

"I am not taking no for an answer," She said holding up a finger in my face for emphasis.

Within the space of half an hour, Katie had proceeded to rummage through my closet to find something presentable. _Presentable _turned out to be a more formal (and in better condition) version of the blouse I was wearing paired with a dark green velvet skirt (to bring out my eyes as she said). She proceeded to delve into my jewelry box and pulled out my pearls. The three strands of pearls had been buried deep in order to save myself from pulling them out accidentally and causing me pain.

She pulled the luminescent pearls out and fastened them around my neck. "These are absolutely lovely, Charlotte. It's such a waste to leave them languishing in your jewelry box. It's almost a sin not to wear something so beautiful."

My fingers caressed the pearls and a flitting image of my father passed over my eyes. A pang of sorrow threatened to ruin the night for Katie and I was stabbed by a hairpin.

"Firecrackers! That hurt!" I complained as I rubbed the sensitive spot.

With pins between her teeth, she replied, "I'm sorry, Charlotte." She quickly braided my hair and tucked it into an elegant bun. She patted the top of my head and smiled at her handiwork. "There you are! Wait 'til your Mr. Holmes sees you!"

I surveyed the reflection in front of me. The person looking back at me looked slightly different from the last time that I had seen her. With my red hair tucked back away from my face, it seemed to emphasize the squareness of my jaw. My gaunt features scared me and I made a mental note to have a hearty dinner after the performance. Dark bags were present under my eyes from my adoption of an insomniac state. Due to my reclusive nature, my skin was nearly as white as the pearls around my neck. Otherwise, good old Katherine had done well in making me appear somewhat presentable. I smiled at the reflection.

"Thank you, Katherine, for everything." I stood up and embraced her.

She stiffened slightly, knowing that this action was not like me; I did not have an affectionate nature. Almost immediately, she returned the embrace tenderly and she did not need a university education to understand what I meant. My gratitude extended beyond her alteration of my appearance, but also for altering my outlook.

After a quick conversation with Mum in the garden, Katie and I left for the theatre. Talking with Mum, however, made me quite reluctant to leave. After all, it was only the both of us living in the house now and Mum was taking Dad's loss much harder than I was. I asked her is she wanted me to stay with her instead but she insisted on my adventuring back into the outside world and that she would be fine on her own.

"Honestly, Charlie," I stiffened at the mention of my former epithet and she quickly revised it. "Charlotte, it seems that our roles have reversed. Here you are playing the mothering role and asking after me. I'm fine and a young thing like you should savor your youth." She stopped and sighed, speaking next in a lower voice. "Besides, it is a widow's duty to mourn."

She smiled wistfully and squeezed her hand in mine. "Go have fun before it's too late. And that's an order."

"Yes, Mum," I acquiesced with a quick hug and kiss then headed toward the theatre with Katherine.

* * *

We took a hansom to Lady Margaret Hall, Katherine's alma mater, and to my surprise, this was no stuffy theatre production of usual conventions. The performance would take place in the meadow by the college and we were to sit on the soft grass and watch Shakespeare out of doors. Her beau, the ever so handsome George, had laid down a blanket and saved the both of us a prime spot near the stage—which was nothing more than a raised wooden platform with minimal set pieces and an indistinct backdrop. 

"Hello Miss Andrewes, it's a surprise to see you," George said with a genuine smile on his face. I could see why Katherine would take a liking to him. He was a good looking man with ginger hair—not like mine, which is a dark shade of red that could be easily mistaken for brown—with a sprinkling of freckles on his face that gave him a boyish look on his face.

"Hello George," I greeted him; it was an oddity between the both of us as I could freely refer to him by his first name but he would not call me by mine. "How is the rowing club?"

"We've been practicing for the Boat Race so we're all exhausted since we've been practicing for hours but you know, we all want to beat Cambridge and all."

"Hear, hear!" Katherine cheered with vigor and gave George a kiss on her cheek. "Hurrah for my lads in dark blue!"

"Oh, George," I began tentatively. "How's Aidan?"

"He was quite sore after you ended things rather badly with him." I could not help but wince at his remarks. However, he shook his head and smiled. "It's a large blow to a man's ego when a girl leaves him and all but when he has good friends, he was able to move on and we all helped him with that. From what I know now, it seems that he's found himself a girl."

In excitement, Katherine nearly jumped from her seat and began tapping my shoulder incessantly. "Oh, Charlotte, you wouldn't _believe_ who Aidan is courting now."

Now I ordinarily am not a gossip nor like listening to gossip but this intrigued me.

"Who?"

"Professor Ellis's daughter," she whispered conspiratorially.

"Aidan's courting _Emily Ellis_?" I gasped and before I could answer, I was being hushed as the play was already starting.

Shakespeare's tragedy _Hamlet_ was among many of my favorite plays yet much of the material was extraordinarily sensitive since it concerned the death of a father figure and the offspring's grief. Yet, the play was surprisingly well done despite the minimal staging. The actors all performed their parts marvelously (save for the actor who played King Hamlet's ghost, playing the part with a ghostly wail more like a banshee than a regal deceased monarch). The ultimate surprise came in the form of Holmes, who played the title role. He was not playing the role of Hamlet, he _was_ Hamlet; from his very stance to the enunciation of his words, this was a man who was in terrible pain and confusion over the sudden death of his father and the hasty (and incestual) marriage of his mother.

My favorite part came when Hamlet lectures the actors on how to play their roles. It is here that Hamlet attempts to lay a trap on the detestable Claudius by producing a play called _The Mousetrap_ and observe if he displays symptoms of guilt. Holmes, as Hamlet, came onto the stage and gathered the players around him. Before speaking, he viewed the audience and—I believe—his eyes fell on me. Whether or not this was the case, it did not matter but when his eyes returned to the players, there was a hint of a smile on his lips as he started to speak…

_Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue. But if you mouth it, as many of our players do, I had as lief the town crier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the air too much with your hand, thus, by use all gently, for in the very torrent, tempest, and (as I may say) whirlwind of your passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance that may give it smoothness…_

If I had felt anything close to admiration for Holmes, it was in that very moment.

* * *

Raucous conversations of university youth replaced the tragic soliloquies of medieval madmen on St. Hilda's meadow. Katherine and George were busy speaking with the actors that played Rosencrantz and Guildenstern while I stood among them, politely listening into the conversation. It turns out that Rosencrantz and Guildenstern were also members of the rowing club. It was while they were relaying a tale of a sinking boat when I felt someone grip my upper arm. 

"Hello, Holmes," I whispered. I did not even need to turn around to see who it was as the boniness of the lengthy fingers gave him away.

"Hello, Charlotte," he returned my greeting with a kiss on the cheek, much to my surprise. However, this action was not affectionate but more likely to draw attention to his arrival…which it did.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes!" Katherine shouted with glee. "Oh you were practically bone-chilling as Hamlet. Nearly brought me to tears and almost had my makeup in ruins."

"Well, I'm terribly sorry for nearly damaging your cosmetics, my dear Miss Quincy." Holmes said with a light-hearted laugh. He was in a pleasant mood due to his obvious triumph on the stage. He spoke with the others quite a bit while I once again played the jolly role of observer and listener. After some humorous stories were shared, Holmes stole a glance in my direction and then said, "Well, Charlotte, my dear, you have not said a word since I've arrived. What did you think of the performance?"

"It was quite lovely," I answered politely. "Yet, I do not understand why you did not tell me that you would be acting nevertheless that you could act."

"You never asked," he replied with a teasing air in his voice. He then addressed the others around him, "If you'll excuse me, I would like to take some time with Miss Andrewes so if you will excuse us." He bowed theatrically, looped my arm around his, and walked off into the twilight spires of Oxford.

After some length in distance as well as silence, Holmes spoke first.

"Have the police discovered anything of importance?"

I could tell by the sardonic quality in his voice that he expected what my answer was. "No, they have discovered nothing."

"Typical, really," Holmes said with a combination of pity and cynicism. "I have read everything about the case in the newspapers and it really is terrible that nothing has been found."

"You needn't tell me, Holmes." I muttered. "It is frustrating to know that my father will not receive justice."

"Is there anything the newspapers did not report perhaps?"

There was a curious quality in his voice, almost like a dog that was trailing a scent. In fact, he was often nicknamed _The Greyhound_ around Oxford as he both resembled the dog and sniffed around others' business.

"Nothing really, Holmes. The trail has gone cold and I fear that there will be no rest for me."

"You already have had no rest. The bags under your eyes tell me as much."

I pulled my arm away from Holmes and began to walk at a faster pace. "I'm quite fine, Holmes. You needn't be concerned about my welfare."

"How would I look then if I show up with you on my arm as an emaciated recluse? It would look negligible on my account if I do not make inquiries about your health. Honestly, Charlotte, I'm honestly concerned just looking at you. I look at you and see that you have lost nearly a stone within the past two months. You clearly aren't concerned with your welfare and frankly…I am!"

His outburst took me by surprise. This was ordinarily a man who neglected his own health, not eating for extended periods of time and smoking like a chimney. Yet, instead of inciting an argument between us like normal, I decided instead to take a more peaceful route.

"I will eat and get more sleep if that will make you happy, Holmes. If that's what you want and if that will get you to stop nagging at me, then I will."

His grey eyes narrowed. "You have changed."

"Well, of course, I've changed!" I exploded and we both stopped walking. "When you see that your father's been beaten and gutted like a bloody fish, of course that'll change a person."

He nodded his head. "Of course, a person has changed because of a tragic event. However, you have not accepted the change, Charlotte. You have let it defeat you and pound you into submission. If you were the Charlotte Sophia Andrewes I knew, you would be arguing with me at this very moment. But as you have said…_you've changed_."

And with that, he bade me good night and left me to walk home alone. And walk home, I did. I walked along the pavement for several blocks with only the trotting of horse-drawn carriages and the clacking of my walking stick with my every step. However, I soon realized that along with my walking stick, I heard the sounds of a pair of footsteps behind me.

At first, I thought it was Holmes following me out of amusement on his part but then I noted a grim discovery. I remembered Holmes had worn dress shoes with light soles. From what I was hearing, these were heavy boots. I did not think it wise to stop and turn around nor to run away. Instead, I began to play a game with my pursuer, which consisted of my slowing down and speeding up the rhythm of my walk. Yet I could not play this game forever and was beginning to feel nervous when I saw a corner coming up. If I turn the corner, my follower would be temporarily blind and then I could stun him with my walking stick. I sped up and turned the corner, waiting for him to appear. I saw his shadow fall upon the pavement and I took that opportunity to swing with all my might.

Unfortunately, my pursuer caught the walking stick with his hand as easy as frog catching a fly. Clearly, I was the fly and with my walking stick, he pulled me in closer and took it out of my hands. His breath smelled like stale alcohol as it breathed down my neck.

"Very impolite for a young lady such as yourself, Miss Andrewes," he said in a slithery, oily voice. "But if you could be so polite, please step into the alley over there."

I lifted my jaw in bravado. "If I don't?"

"Well, we can't have that now, can we?" He muttered and then pulled out a rather long knife out of his jacket.

I gulped and acquiesced, stepping into the alley. The knife had been placed at my back, pointing ever so slightly into it as to remind me of its presence. He stopped me at a certain point and ordered me to stand against the wall. He threw my walking stick in the other direction.

"This is no ordinary mugging, am I right?" I ventured.

The man looked back at me appraisingly. "Smart lass, ain't you?" I viewed my pursuer. He was a compact man yet all muscle beneath his clothes. His face was obscured by dark paint or ash. The shadows he was standing in made it even harder for me to take notice of his features. "Wish your father had been the same."

I felt as if I had just been splashed with a bucket of ice cold water. My face obviously gave me away and he laughed.

"Did you kill him?"

A rakish smile appeared on his smile. "'Fraid not, wish I had though." He suddenly lunged at me, the knife now set against my neck. "Now, luv, your father was writin' somethin'. What was it?"

"I don't know," I immediately answered, which I realized belatedly was the wrong thing to do. The knife dug in a little bit closer to my neck.

"This knife isn't a decoration, sweetheart. He was writin' something like a memoir or somethin' or other. What was he writin'?"

"I don't know! Please, I'm being honest with you." I exclaimed as he seized my arm tightly, causing tears to leap into my eyes. I began to jerk away from his grasp as it was beginning to hurt. "He wrote many letters but I don't know anything about my father writing memoirs or anything like that. Please, sir, let me go!"

"Well, it looks like you're tellin' me the truth." He said pulling away from my face a few inches yet the knife was still there by my neck. Suddenly, he grabbed my hair and tugged my head backwards, exposing my neck. The knife dangled dangerously from above. "But you know, I can't have you skippin' off to the constable and all…"

Before I could even scream, his large hand pressed onto my mouth and extinguished any chances of rescue. The knife pressed into my skin and pain smoldered along my neck when his hand suddenly flew up as if somebody had wrenched his arm away. And someone had; his arm had been wrenched away and my assailant whirled around to see his own attacker when he was punched on the jaw, causing him to fall over.

"Charlotte!" And with that familiar voice, my breath was instantly returned to me followed my walking stick, which was thrown magically into the air. I caught it in my good hand and whirled over to the thug.

My assailant started to stand back up and that's when I took the opportunity to swing my stick like a cricket bat and slammed it into his stomach. He doubled over once more and finally I hit him in the back of his head, rendering him unconscious. I dropped my walking stick after I was sure that the brute was down for now.

"Nice swing,"

I leaned back against the wall and out of breath, the sound of laughter slowly wheezed out of my throat. In the moonlight, Holmes' grey eyes immediately locked onto the dark stain of blood along my neck with a yelp and he rushed forward. He pulled out a handkerchief and pressed it against my neck. While in close quarters, he set about examining my face for any other injuries.

"Are you hurt?" He asked with a note of concern in his voice.

"No, I'm quite fine, Mother," I retorted. I pressed my hand over his and then pushed his hand away so that I could press the handkerchief against my neck. I briefly pulled the handkerchief away to examine the blood on it. "My neck is not bleeding as much as I thought it would. Were you following me?"

"I had begun to walk back when I saw that man come out from behind a tree and began to follow you. I decided to follow him." Holmes explained as he pulled out a cigarette and began to smoke with shaky hands. Was he nervous? Concerned? About me? "I heard what he was interrogating you about. It makes me extremely curious."

"What will we do about him?" I pointed to the fallen figure on the floor. No sooner than the words had left my lips, a clatter of footsteps echoed from outside the alley and a torchlight fell upon us.

"Mr. Holmes, is that you?"

"Ah, Inspector Walken, there you are." Holmes said in a tone as though he had discovered a surprise guest. Inspector Walken meandered over to the prone figure on the dirty alley floor. "This is the man, go ahead and clap him in irons. If you do not mind, I shall take Miss Andrewes home. She has had a rather trying night and if you would like a statement from her, then come back tomorrow."

And for the umpteenth time in my life, Holmes once again began walking me home. He briefly stopped underneath a streetlight to examine my wound more properly.

"He merely broke through the skin."

"It still hurts." I replied.

"It won't scar." He added ignoring my comment.

"It still hurts!" I repeated vehemently.

"Well, of course it does, your throat was nearly slit." He replied, echoing my vehemence. "I'm just glad that it was not anything serious. There is something rotten in the state of Denmark, if I must say."

"Rotten indeed, but I must agree with you in saying that I've had a rather trying night and I would like to go home."

"Then walk home we shall," Holmes agreed.

We had taken a couple of steps when I stopped and kissed him on the cheek. It was rather dark so I could not see the expression on his face. He spoke sharply, "Now what was that for?"

I immediately felt my face burn up. He was making so much out of it, honestly. "Saving my life of course! Firecrackers, Holmes, I'm just trying to show my gratitude. Just accept it and hush."

"Then you are quite welcome. After all, I cannot pretend to court someone if they are killed." I offered him my arm and he tucked it into his. "There is much to consider about this new development about your father's murder. You must tread much more carefully from now on and we shall wait for what your attacker has to say. I believe that he will shed some light on what conspired against your father and also who hired him."

"He was hired by someone?"

"Yes, much like the ones who killed your father. That is the only data that I solidly believe at the moment. It is something that I will consider tonight. Oh, and Charlotte?"

"Yes, Holmes?"

"It is a pleasure having you back, my dear lady."

"Holmes, don't belittle me,"

He smiled. "Of course not,"

And with that, he walked me back home and with each step, we stepped deeper and deeper into lurking danger.


	12. Bird and Baby

**_I need someone who is a fast reader, adept at the English language, and has a wealthy knowledge of the Canon. Why, you ask? Well, believe it or not, I'm not a perfect writer (gasp!), and I need a fresh pair of eyes to read a chapter before I post it. So anyone interested in being a beta reader, please send me a private message with your qualifications._**

**_Anyways, onto the chapter..._**

* * *

"Got you!" I exclaimed as my hand flew over and captured a ladybird that had been crawling over the gravestone. I slowly swept the insect into my left hand, cupped my hands as I brought it close to me, and then peered inside. The ladybird was larger than ones I had seen before, its shiny body crimson as blood speckled with its trademark black spots. I opened up my hands and it crept along my hand tentatively at first then it made its way towards the top of my index finger, spread its wings from underneath its shiny, protective shell, and flew off into the fresh spring air. 

I watched its progress for a few seconds then returned to my original task at hand. My fingers traced the engraving of my father's name on the cold gravestone. Afterwards, I pressed my palms on the stone and felt my breath turn shallow. It was real and unreal at the same time. I had always thought that this experience—mourning at my father's grave—would come when I was much older and at a more appropriate time in his life. He was not ready to leave, he still had so much to accomplish and so much to live for, and simply it was utterly unfair.

"Hi Dad," I murmured as I took away the vase of wilted flowers from two weeks before and replaced it with a fresh vase of gerbera daisies. I arranged them a little before placing them down. "Nothing much has happened really. You should see Anne and Geoff's little Veronica. Cutest little thing that ever walked the earth, I swear."

I rubbed the smooth cut from the wound I had sustained from that knife-wielding brute the previous night. When I had arrived home, I had attempted to cover it up but Mum with her ever-knowing eyes immediately saw something wrong and squealed in fright. She chastised me for walking home on my own at night and praised Holmes for protecting me. It was with reluctance that she allowed me outside today. She was afraid for my safety yet she saw that my willingness to go outside as best for my health. In the end, I argued that I was venturing out in broad daylight and there would be a slim chance that anything would happen to me.

"I don't know what you got yourself into, Dad." I said to the gravestone. "I wish you had told me."

I heard the grass rustle behind me and I instantly tightened my grip on the walking stick. From my peripheral vision, a familiar aquiline shadow fell across the grass and my breath returned to me.

"Did you know that there is a form of fighting called singlestick where the main weapon of choice is a walking stick?" A familiar voice recited in a scholarly tone.

"Perhaps you should teach me then. What are you doing here, Holmes?" I asked in greeting. Using my walking stick, I stood up on my own and turned around to face him. "Did my mother send you after me as a bodyguard of some sort?"

"No, I had walked over to your house to see if you wanted to watch the bumping races on the Isis. Your mother told me that you went to the cemetery and here I am."

"I see," I replied then took one more glance at my father's grave. "Bumping races on the Isis?"

"You need more sun and besides people have been wondering about our lack of outings together." He reasoned as he pulled out a cigarette from his coat pocket and lit it. "They'll think there's something amiss between us."

"Oh, now we can't have that now, can we?" I muttered with asperity. I walked over to him. "All right, then. Off to the races, we go." And with that, I plucked the cigarette out of his mouth and stomped it out.

He sputtered angrily, his grey eyes bulging as he growled, "What the deuce did you do that for?"

I merely replied as I began to walk away, "A lady has a most delicate constitution."

He snorted in response. "You only use your femininity when it suits you." He muttered angrily but nevertheless began to follow me, pulling out another cigarette and soon resembled the smokestacks in Manchester.

* * *

It always surprises me what human coordination and cooperation can accomplish and there is no finer example of this than the bumping races along the Isis. Holmes led me down to Folly Bridge where many others had already gathered to watch the races from above. Holmes signaled that I go ahead into the crowd first and I budged my way through tweed skirts and wool jackets. I finally found a spot near the edge and felt a bump on my shoulder, indicating that Holmes had managed to join me. 

Every March in Hilary term and for a total of four days, the Torpids were a large event for the entirety of Oxford. Almost all of the colleges participated and dispersed through the crowd were flags that corresponded with their college's colors. The gathering was rowdy with many flailing arms and cheers for whatever college.

"If you are wondering," Holmes said into my ear. "The blade colors for Christ Church are plain navy blue. Balliol is navy blue with a streak of red along the loom, Oriel is navy with two white stripes running vertical towards the end of the spoon…"

Holmes continued his description of the blades for a while and when I had identified each boat, I was content to simply watch the skill and strength of the rowers. It seemed from my eyes that Oriel was currently in the lead.

"Fancy seeing you here, Charlotte!" A familiar voice emerged from behind me. I turned and saw that it was George, Katie's beau.

"George!" I cried as he moved next to me. "Shouldn't you be down there, rowing with the others?"

"Can't," was his simple answer. I asked why not and it was Holmes that answered.

"George and his team are competing in the Boat Race between Cambridge and Oxford hence he is not allowed to compete in the Torpids."

"Well, that's bollocks," I muttered without thinking and then felt myself blush. "Pardon my language, George."

"Oh, that's all right. One of the lads had said the same thing about that." He replied with a grin.

We watched for the better part of two hours where Christ Church attempted to bump Trinity while Oriel had a fair lead over Exeter. Amidst the shouts of coxswains ordering their boats to victory—_Bow, take a stroke! Push for ten! GO!—_George glanced at his pocket watch then turned to us.

"Sherlock, why don't you and Charlotte join Katherine and me for lunch?" He asked.

Looking at Holmes and knowing him as well as I do, I thought that he would say no and invent some sort of excuse not to go. Much to my surprise, however, Holmes actually agreed.

"Excellent then," George said with a smile. "How does half past twelve at the Eagle and Child sound?"

"Satisfactory," Holmes agreed. "We shall see you then. If you'll excuse us, George, we have some business to attend to." And with that, we began to move our way back through the crowd.

It seemed that as the day progressed, more and more spectators had gathered around Folly Bridge and the banks along the Isis to watch. It made it much more difficult to maneuver through the crowd. As I moved through, I felt a hand grip my upper arm tightly.

"Don't turn around."

The voice did not belong to George or Holmes or anyone I knew. I felt a shudder run through me though the air was fairly warm. The voice was familiar yet I could not place where I had heard it before. I wanted to scream out for help but the grip tightened almost painfully, causing my voice to leave me.

"I'm not gonna hurt you but don't turn around. What I have to say is important so listen to me: Papers are in London. Guard them. Protect them."

My mind was ablaze with this information. "What papers? What are you talking about? Who are you?"

"Just listen to me and remember. The papers are in London. That's all you need to know." And with that, the iron grip on my arm released. I whirled around and saw no one there.

My mind felt like it had been knocked senseless for the second time in a week. The previous night, I had been nearly killed over papers and now a seemingly disembodied voice was telling me that these papers that I was nearly killed over are in London. I caught my breath, realizing belatedly that I had not inhaled since that encounter. I then realized that Holmes was probably waiting for me outside of the crowd. I plowed through the rest of the crowd and looked wildly around for Holmes.

He was towards the end of the bridge and I ran over to him. As I came closer, he saw the look on my face and like the greyhound that he was, he quickly picked up on the scent.

"Something happened?"

"Yes, but I shall tell you when we reach the Eagle and Child. I am famished and I do not think it safe to talk out of doors."

"Then let us walk quickly." He said decisively and off we went to the Eagle and Child.

* * *

Oxford is my _terra firma_. The moment I step out of my house, I breathe in that cool air that is filled with the essence of intelligence and perseverance. I was born in Radcliffe Infirmary here and was raised with the bells of the Church of St. Mary Magdalen as my lullaby and the Botanical Gardens as my private playgrounds. The Isis and the Cherwell were akin to what the River Ganges means to the Hindu population in India. Walking throughout the streets, I could feel the numerous souls of the past that had traversed before me. Amongst the emerald knolls and cloistered ceilings, there was no other place in the world that summed up the meaning of _home _to me. 

From Folly Bridge, we made our way up St. Giles' Street and my eyes soon saw the familiar sign of the eagle carrying a child bundled up in cloth from its claw. The ever popular Eagle and Child (alternatively known as the Bird and Baby) was a narrow and small pub that was normally filled to the brim with university students socializing or drinking their troubles away. When Holmes and I entered the pub, it was a rather sedate atmosphere considering that it was not yet lunchtime and nearly everyone was outside watching the Torpids.

Holmes seemed like a familiar fixture in this institution for as soon as he approached the bar, the barman immediately put down everything and nearly jumped over the bar to shake hands with him.

"Young Sherlock Holmes! What can I do you for, my boy?" The barman greeted him jovially, his accent thick Oxfordshire.

"A pint for myself and…what would you like, Charlotte?"

"I'd like a pint as well, please." I answered mildly.

The barman stole a glance at me then continuing in that jovial tone, "I don't believe you've introduced me to this very lovely young lady."

I could not help but roll my eyes discreetly while Holmes introduced me. "This is John Buckland Earl, the owner of this fine establishment. Mr. Earl, this is my good friend Charlotte Andrewes."

Mr. Earl bowed chivalrously and briefly held my hand in his whilst bearing a yellow toothed grin. "A pleasure to meet you, Miss Andrewes. I must say that it is nice to see Sherlock here with a beautiful young lady such as yourself," Holmes in response merely fixed a forced smile on his face. "Anyways, my dear, welcome to the—"

His welcome was cut short when his eyes traveled down to my walking stick. Instinctively, I began to inspect the much worn wooden floor while my face burned a dark shade of crimson. Mr. Earl seemed like he was about to ask after my walking stick when Holmes interrupted him.

"Mr. Earl, our drinks are all we ask, if you please." He stated in an icy cold voice that resembled the chill of the wind outside.

"Right you are," Mr. Earl assented as his eyes quickly shot back to Holmes and he went about fixing our drinks.

We then seated ourselves and received our drinks from a young barmaid shortly after. When she placed my drink down, her eyes flicked over to my walking stick, which was leaning against the table. I cleared my throat and she smiled…piteously? I do not know. I immediately downed half of my pint after her leave and cursed underneath my breath. Holmes took a sip of his brew and then began to ask me about what had happened on Folly Bridge.

"The voice you heard was familiar to you? Familiar as in someone that you know? Also, was the owner of this voice, what would you consider his minimum age?"

"Familiar in the sense that I've heard it before." I explained, feeling slightly dizzy from the alcohol I had just consumed. I removed my tweed coat as the alcohol began to warm me up, rubbing my temples as I spoke, "He did not sound like an old man…I'd say he sounded around James' age or perhaps slightly older. I know that voice and it will drive me crazy until I find out where it had come from."

Holmes waved his hand dismissively. "There is no use focusing on that now if you cannot remember. Store it in the back of your mind and we shall return to it when the time comes. Now, which arm did he grab: right or left?"

"Left," I replied.

"Considering your malnourished state and the strength of his grip, it is quite probable he left bruises on your arm. Pull up your sleeve for me and let me examine your arm." Holmes directed me.

I hesitated to say the least. My entire wardrobe consisted of long sleeved blouses and other clothing for this single reason: my left limb. It was withered with very little muscle on it. It resembled a bone covered haphazardly with skin. Unconsciously, I began to rub my left arm.

"I have seen your left leg, Charlotte." Holmes said delicately. "I know the extent of damage that the disease wreaked on you."

He was right. I sighed then began to unbutton the sleeve. I folded the sleeve up a little bit then offered Holmes my arm. He gently took it in his hands as though my arm were made of glass and pushed the sleeve all the way up to my shoulder; my arm became quite sensitive and aware of his touch. I caught a glimpse of my withered arm as he pushed up the sleeve and turned my head towards the other direction. He then slowly turned my arm in his hands.

"Sure enough, there are five distinct bruises on your upper arm that resemble fingertips." He said as his own fingertips brushed against the skin of my arm. He inadvertently poked at one of the bruises, causing me to jump slightly in pain. "I apologize; I was attempting to recreate the grip of your mystery person. From what I can judge, the man is very strong and tall; at the minimum, he stands over six feet at the minimum. He is a large and muscled individual since his hand basically consumed your arm in his hands." He then said more to himself than to me, "If only I could have seen him myself…"

He then unfolded my sleeve then pushed it back down to its proper length and buttoned it back up. I glanced in his direction and saw that he was looking back at me with that ever familiar look of curiosity on his face. There was a question hidden behind that bony face yet I knew that he was biting his tongue for my sake. I decided to answer his hidden question.

"Because of the paralysis in my left arm, the muscle atrophied…just like my left leg." I told him in a low voice.

He nodded gravely. "I figured as much but I am wondering about your left leg. When one is inflicted with polio, one usually sees deformities in the hips or ankles—" Holmes began to say when I interrupted him.

"Yes, I know. My father was friends with Dr. Hugh Owen Thomas and he asked if Dr. Thomas could make a special brace for my leg to keep it straight. My father took leave of his teaching when I got sick to find different treatments. Some were complete bunk while others had some merits. He heard of a nurse in Australia who suggested that my limbs be massaged and exercised to prevent the muscles from atrophying too much. This actually worked really well…but anyways…I suffered through total body casts and much worse."

My eyes flicked toward my walking stick leaning forlornly on the wall.

"You cannot let it run your life, Charlotte." Holmes said as his eyes followed mine.

I chuckled humorlessly. "Oh, it is easier said than done, Holmes. Do not get me wrong, I have acted bravely—stiff upper lip attitude and all that. It's made me extremely admirable in many people's eyes." A humorless chuckle resurfaced. "Yet there is only so much that one can take…the pitiful stares, hushed voices synchronized with my arrival, rosary wielding old ladies telling me that they'll pray for me…" I slammed my palms against the table, causing the few patrons to turn in my direction. Why did it have to be me? What did I do to deserve this? What is wrong with me?

I had unknowingly given voice to these last thoughts and Holmes answered in a bittersweet tone, "Life is incredibly harsh and treats us rather poorly. Still it is what we do in reaction to our ill treatment that makes us what we shall be."

"And what will I be, Holmes?" I asked with a wry smirk.

He did not answer—rather he was unable to provide one—as George and Katherine walked over to us. Straight away, the serious atmosphere fizzled into a cheery situation. I greeted Katie with a hug while Holmes and George briskly shook hands with each other. We then ordered our lunch and proceeded to talk about each other's various activities and whatnot, settling into a social ease.

* * *

I returned home at half past two and when I walked through the door, Josephine immediately rushed towards me with fright and concern etched into her elderly features. Her heavy bosom was heaving and sweat glistened on her face. 

"Burglar! There was a burglar!" She cried.

My mind immediately went blank at the shock of these events. First a cryptic message on Folly Bridge and now my home was burglarized. As Josephine kept babbling, I slowly returned to reality and asked the first question that came to mind.

"Where's Mum?"

"She stepped out to have tea with Mrs. Oxley." Josephine said. "It was lucky that there was no one in the house. Cook was off visiting her mother in Leeds, I was out shopping, while you and your mother went out. Wouldn't you agree, Miss Charlotte?"

"Yes, Josephine," I answered mindlessly, trying to grasp all of this information. "What was stolen?" I then looked around the parlor and the living room, which looked as impeccable as I left it. My brow wrinkled in confusion. "Did you clean it up or…"

"No, Miss, it's the strangest thing. The only room that was burgled was your father's study."

Since his death, Dad's study had been locked up. Nobody entered—not because it was not allowed, rather nobody wanted to. The place clearly had my father's stamp all over and that was much too painful for anyone to explore at the moment. Hence, it was locked up a day after his funeral. Mum kept the key with her at all times.

Josephine led me towards his study and found that the doors had been wrenched open. I felt my heart breaking as my eyes took in the remains of his beautiful study. The numerous bookshelves had been knocked over. The drawers of his desk were pulled out while his papers littered the floor. For the first time in months, I stepped inside the room. Immediately, I was assaulted by the sound of his voice, my memories of my father in this room. I bent over and covered my ears, then took a deep but shaky breath.

"Did you notice anything missing, Josephine?"

"I did not look yet, Miss." Josephine said from the threshold, clearly reluctant to step foot inside the study.

I picked up some random books, rifled through some papers on his desk and then I stopped. Next to the gas lamp (which was now lay in shards several feet away), there was a beautiful medium-sized wooden box made of ebony and ivory, decorated with a lovely geometric pattern, and locked. I remembered it because it seemed incongruous with the entire room. I had lifted it once and noted how heavy it was. When I had asked my father what was inside, he merely replied that it was something special…nothing more and nothing less.

That ebony and ivory box was what was stolen, solving one mystery.

The reason why it was stolen was another more difficult question entirely.


	13. Yorkshire, Sussex, and London

**_I'd like to announce that I have a new beta reader that is willing to slog through my grammar and help me write this lovely story. MeGoobie is a great writer who pens interesting and entertaining stories to offer the world so I suggest you read them! There's a link to her profile provided in my profile._**

**_I don't like to complain but I was slightly disappointed that I did not get too many reviews for my last chapter. I saw that I got quite a lot of hits on my last chapter but I would have loved to see more reviews. So please please please review! I love to hear what you guys are thinking! And onto the chapter..._**

* * *

I slid the arrow's nock onto the bowstring and pulled the string back. Focusing my eyes on the target ahead of me, I took a deep breath through my chest, exhaled it through my nose, and released the string. The arrow sailed through the air and landed with a _thunk_, into the target and pierced the outer yellow circle of the bulls-eye. My archery skills considerably developed during my months of mournful solitude in the past months; reading any novel I can get my hands on was the only other activity I allowed myself. I was about to put in another arrow when Josephine, who was standing by the doorway, caught my eye. 

"Hello, Josephine," I warmly greeted while I slid another arrow into the bowstring.

"Hello, Miss Charlotte," she warily returned my greeting and eyed the bow in my hands. "I have a telegram for you. Would you like me to leave it in the parlor?"

I placed the arrow back into the quiver as I sensed her discomfort caused by the grasped weapon. "No, that's all right. I'm quite done here so I'll take it."

She handed me the telegram and went inside. I cleaned up the equipment that lay scattered throughout the yard and then followed her. As soon as the door closed behind me, my mother's voice cried out.

"Charlotte, is that you?"

"Yes, Mum," was my standard reply to her whenever I returned home. I found her in the dining room having breakfast; I gave her a quick kiss on the cheek then went up the stairs and into my room. Ever since the ransacking of my father's study, Mum visibly shook at every foreign sound and would inquire the identity of anyone entering or leaving the house. A more disconcerting effect of the burglary was that I was no longer allowed to go outside. It was ironic really; my mother was the one that constantly prodded me to go outside for the past two months and now I could not venture outside now that it was necessary.

Once in my room, I opened up the telegram and began to read it:

**CHARLOTTE READ LONDON TIMES. ARTICLE CONCERNS DEATH OF T. HEPBURN. MUST SPEAK IN PERSON. MAY I COME FOR DINNER QUERY.**

**HOLMES**

Communications between Holmes and me now consisted of telegrams and the few times he managed to come over to the house between his rigorous studies. Admittedly, I did miss his company which tended to warm the dim atmosphere. Our house had transformed into since Dad's death and the speed of Holmes' mind kindled a warmth in me. While that man always managed to annoy me, our intellectual clashes left my mind feeling quite invigorated. I sat down at my desk and briefly scrawled out a reply for Holmes. As soon as I was done writing, I called Josephine to send the reply to the telegram office. By this time, Mum had finished her lunch and retired to the parlor with her knitting.

"He's a nice young man, isn't he?" Mum asked.

I thought that Holmes was about as nice as an annoyed bear being bothered during hibernation. I allowed a smile to curl my lips in response.

"Your father thought very highly of your Mr. Holmes." She added as she returned to her knitting. I did not know what to say in response to that so I decided to change the subject.

I cleared my throat. "How are you, Mum?"

"That is such an odd question to ask...that inquiry has been made ever since your father passed on. Everyone seems to expect me to become hysterical with grief." She shook her head in disgust. "Honestly, Charlotte, you should be the last person asking me how I am." She sighed and gazed into the fire before turning to me with a small smile that made her look much older than she actually was. "I am as good as a widow can possibly be. Try not to worry about me, my dear. It makes me feel terribly old."

"I'll try not to," I replied as I sat down next to her. She resumed her knitting and I was simply content to watch her skill. I remembered every teddy bear that James decapitated was taken with alacrity to Mum, which was quite often as James had constructed a miniature guillotine and took my bears as its victims. Of course with my weak arms and my own preference, I could and did not knit. A young woman not skilled in the domestic arts is such a hopeless marriage candidate; I could, however, cook.

"Oh, Mum, do we still get _The Times_?" I asked after some time remembering Holmes' telegram.

"We still do, I believe Josephine has placed it on the table by your father's study." She said without looking up from her stitches.

"Thanks Mum," I briefly leaned on her shoulder then went to fetch the newspaper.

The large bundle of newspaper that was _The Times _sat on the miniscule table. I tucked it under my arm and I was determined to pass my father's study without a single glance. However, fate in the name of Apollo intervened, sprinting out of the study and nearly causing me to trip.

"I swear you'll kill me one of these days!" I cursed under my breath. Apollo haughtily meowed in response, licked his paws, and then dashed back into the study. The ginger cat proceeded to scale the bookshelves, jumped down from the lofty height of the shelves, and settled in Dad's armchair.

I leaned against the door framing of his study, still hesitant to come inside the room. The room had been cleaned up and looked as if nothing had happened. Yet from my position, I saw that the books had been haphazardly placed in their shelves and not in the chronological order that my history professor father kept them in. The wooden floor was still fresh with scratches from the tumbled bookcases. The papers on his desk were arranged a bit too orderly for my father's tastes. And of course, that ebony and ivory box with its secretive contents was missing.

Apollo reminded me of his presence with a low meow. My eyes reverted back to his armchair and saw Apollo circling the armchair's cushion with his tail raised in the air. When I saw his tail, I knew this could be trouble for he only does that right before he relieves himself. I certainly did not want my Dad's favorite chair littered with cat excrement and began to call that dumb cat.

"Apollo, no! Not on the chair, you stupid cat!" I exclaimed from the doorway.

In response to my commands, all he did was stare back at me with those amber eyes. The only course of action left was to pick him up and put him outside to take care of his business. The only obstacle was that the room Apollo had chosen as his water closet was my father's study.

It would be easy enough to grab the paper and leave but…it was not. There was something inside of me that prevented me from entering the study even though I had already entered two days before. However, the foolish feline was about to desecrate my father's chair. If Holmes were watching me at this very moment, he would be glaring at me with those hawk-like grey eyes, smirking with those thin lips on his angular face, laughing internally at my seemingly ludicrous actions. I sheepishly laughed at myself and took a step into the room.

Immediately upon stepping inside, I raced towards the armchair, seized Apollo, and fled from the room as if there was a ghost pursuing me. I took Apollo to the yard and watched him meander towards his earthy water closet. As I watched that ginger blur's progress through the grass, I thought to myself that perhaps there was a specter chasing me.

* * *

The article Holmes referred to in his telegram was a filler article and was clearly not too important in the minds of the London journalists. It seems that T. Hepburn was a Mr. Thaddeus Hepburn, a sixty-six year old retired bookseller and manuscript collector. According to the article, Mr. Hepburn and his rooms had been consumed in a fire during the night. The likely cause of the fire was negligence; perhaps a lit and unattended cigar ignited a curtain or something equally flammable. I quickly finished the article and wondered why Holmes had sent me this article and why he needed to talk to me about it. I quickly dismissed it from my mind and decided to immerse myself into the macabre pages of Edgar Allan Poe. 

It was not until a few minutes later that the article fell into place. I stopped reading mid-stanza of Poe's _Annabel Lee_ and smacked my head, cursing my stupidity.

Thaddeus Hepburn was the man my father had visited in London before his death.

And now, Mr. Hepburn was dead as well.

With those ghastly thoughts in my mind, no thanks to Edgar Allan, and a glance at the clock on the wall, I decided to get myself ready for dinner. I sat in front of my rarely used vanity and fixed my hair after changing into a light blue long-sleeved blouse and a thin, black skirt. I took my hair down from the tight bun and decided to put it in a French braid. Just as I finished braiding my hair, I heard Mum holler for me downstairs. With a final look in the mirror, I realized how long my hair had become then went off to meet her.

I found Holmes downstairs in the parlor making polite chat with my mother. His lean figure was seated on the settee opposite from Mum's armchair. His arms were crossed against his chest and his head cocked at an angle as he listened to Mum's conversation. His dark brown hair was slightly messier than was ordinary and there were definite bags underneath his grey eyes; all were customary symptoms of the haggard Oxford scholar. Part of me could see why some girls found him attractive. There was a certain handsome quality in those aquiline features; the man could be quite the charmer when he wanted to.

The latter thought brought me to wonder about Holmes and his peculiar proclivity towards what he called the "fairer sex." Holmes possessed qualities that would make him very marketable for marriage; he was fairly handsome, well-educated, wealthy, as could be deduced by his ability to pay for such an excellent education, and in possession of many other good qualities. Yet something in this young man had clearly veered him away from any sort of female companionship asides from me. However, I was the exception rather than the rule. He was the last student in class mixing chemicals while the others rushed outside to fill the pubs; he was in the Bodleian hunting down some odd fact while his fellow scholars were chasing the pretty young things from Lady Margaret Hall. What had happened to Holmes that created a misogynistic streak in his person?

I could not stay on the staircase in this reverie forever and clambered down the remaining steps to the parlor. Holmes' gaze shifted from Mum to me and he pasted a polite smile on his face.

"Hello, Miss Andrewes." He said as he stood up.

"Hello, Mr. Holmes." I said with a nod, noting the odd formality of our greeting.

"Ah, Charlotte, there you are. I am going to quickly check on our dinner." Mum stood up from her seat, gave me an indiscreet nudge, and then left us in the parlor.

Holmes watched as my mother walked away. "I wonder what it is that she thinks we will do."

I grinned. "Mum told me stories of how her and my father carried on with each other during their courtship."

A wry smirk curled his lips but he said nothing more than, "I see,"

"I read the article, Holmes." I started, broaching the subject upon him. "Thaddeus Hepburn was the man my father visited in London before his death."

"Yes, I know," he said before adding, in response to my raised eyebrows, "I know someone who works at the local police department. Now, before your mother comes back," he leaned towards me. "Come with me to London."

I could not help but smile at the humor of the situation. If it were any other man in this situation, a trip to London would be some romantic getaway where we would get lost within the mad whirl of the city. But of course, this was Holmes who had proposed to travel with me and with that greyhound of a man who stood inches in front of me, pragmatism was the main reason behind everything.

"I am serious, Charlotte." He snapped, mistaking my smile for an expression of sarcasm. "You must leave Oxford if you wish to find out more."

"I know, Holmes, and I absolutely understand why I need to go to London. The moment I read that article I wanted to run out the door and get on a train to the city." I remarked seriously though a laugh tainted my voice. "I was merely thinking if it were any other man besides you asking me to come to London…well, you know what Oxford's young men are like." I added with a shrug. Luckily I did not need to explain my comment any further. He simply nodded in understanding; he knew about the intellectual idiocy of the young male. "I just find the circumstances humorous."

"Indeed…it is almost ironic." He agreed. "Yet you did not give me an answer to my proposal." He repeated, "Come with me to London."

I shook my head as a sigh escaped me. Mum emerged from the dining room and announced that dinner was ready before Holmes could inquire the reason for my silent refusal.

"We'll discuss this later," I whispered as we made our way toward the dining room.

Holmes acknowledged this nothing more than a slight nod.

Dinner was a stilted and demure affair. I told Holmes about my improvement in archery and the Poe readings I had started to study. Holmes talked about some of his experiments in class and a funny anecdote about one student that had taken placed during Michaelmas term's final exams. Mum asked after Holmes' studies and, in turn, related tales of her own youth in Oxford and of her own courtship; apparently, my mother had been quite the eligible beauty in town. We had just scraped off the last of a treacle tart when Mum steered the conversation into uncharted waters.

"Mr. Holmes," my mother said as she wiped herself with a cloth napkin. "Most of the students are not from around here. Is it safe to assume that you are not a local as well?"

"Yes, I am not an Oxonian. My parents hail from Yorkshire. However, I was raised mostly in Sussex." Holmes replied in a tone that seemed to suggest that this was the standard answer he gave to everyone who asked.

"Oh, Sussex!" My mother cried out. "My grandmother lived in Dover and we would often venture across the South Downs. Lovely weather down there."

Holmes took a sip of wine. "Yes, the conditions are always pleasant there."

"And what of your family, Mr. Holmes?" Mum asked. "Any siblings? You've already acquainted yourself with our brood."

"I have an elder brother, Mycroft, who is seven years my senior. He was also an Oxford graduate and I believe that he had Professor Andrewes during his tenure at the university." Holmes answered in clipped tones. I began to notice that his jaw had become taut during the conversation. "Would you like me to ask him?"

Holmes was seated across from me and I saw his hands open and close as they lay on the table. It was a subtle gesture that I would have missed if I had not been paying attention. His face revealed nothing yet his hands spoke volumes; the tightness of the grip and the sudden release revealed that Holmes clearly did not like this conversation.

"Oh, Mum, did I tell you that Katherine and George are planning to get married?" I asked, changing the subject.

The switch in subjects seemed to effectively divert my mother's attentions; she began to press for more details about their engagement. I was never much of a gossiper, but I felt that this was the best way to distract my mother; just as I suspected, the subject matter interested her and we exhausted the topic for a good ten minutes.

"Well, Cook makes an absolutely delicious treacle tart." Mum happily announced to the entirety of the table. "Perhaps a cup of tea in the parlor will finish this evening grandly. Wouldn't you agree, Mr. Holmes?"

Holmes had been inspecting the landscape painting that hung on the wall behind me during the gossip session between Mum and me. He tore his grey eyes away from the azure-painted Isis. "Yes, a cup of tea sounds suitable after that satisfying treacle tart."

We retreated to the parlor where Josephine laid out a spectacular tray of scones alongside the requisite chamomile tea. Holmes asked after my father's Stradivarius and if he could borrow some sheet music. Mum told Holmes that my father had also composed several pieces himself and asked if Holmes would like to borrow those compositions as well. He replied that he would be honored while Mum obliged and rifled through the sheet music in the piano bench.

"It would bring Thomas great joy to know that someone as talented as you could play his music," she said as she handed him the papers. "Oh, Charlotte, do you remember any of your father's compositions?"

"Yes, my father wrote one for me during my…convalescence."

"I shall return it to you as soon as possible." Holmes assured us as he placed the notes on the table.

Mum poured some cream into her tea. "Yorkshire and Sussex…will you be going back to Sussex between terms?"

"No," Holmes simply replied. "I have research that will keep me here."

"Won't your parents miss you?"

Again I saw his jaw become taut and his hands open and shut. He refused to look at either of us and, instead, examined the fireplace as though he was absorbed in an interesting discussion with the flames. He finally spoke in a matter-of-fact tone.

"My father has taken residence in Yorkshire…since my mother's death."

All my mother could say was a simple, "Oh, I'm sorry. I did not realize." Holmes simply went back to gazing into the fire.

"Sherlock," I said gently placing a hand on his left arm. He quickly winced as though in pain then turned towards me. "It's becoming rather late and you have been exhausting yourself with your studies."

"I believe your daughter is right," Holmes said with a seemingly forced smile. "I shall be taking my leave, Mrs. Andrewes."

"Of course," Mum agreed. "Charlotte, wait outside with Mr. Holmes until he gets a hansom."

I nodded in agreement and we headed out the door. I closed the door behind me and we walked to the edge of the pavement. Holmes looked at the streetlights and then at me.

"Why can't you come to London?"

"You know very well my mother won't let me out of the house." I answered as I buried my hands in cozy tweed pockets. "If you really want me to come, figure out a way to make my Mum acquiesce."

I shall think of something," said Holmes as he took a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it; the flame briefly illuminated his sharp features. He held in the smoke for a little longer than usual before exhaling through his nose. "I will send a telegram to let you know when the arrangements have been made."

Holmes and I stood in the clear and cold Oxford night, engulfed in the sound of silence and the acrid scent of tobacco. It was apparent that Mum's seemingly harmless inquiry into Holmes' family life had disturbed him. To the casual observer, he appeared as usual; he was a cool and detached mixture of arrogance and intellect. After five months in close contact with the man, however, I noticed and understood the meaning of the stiffness of his fingers and jaw combined with the distant look in his gray eyes. Holmes flicked the spent cigarette onto the street after he had exhausted it.

His unforeseen show of tenderness when I had seen the hauntingly horrid image of my father on that night now made some sense. I did not know what I could do or if I had anything to tell him. I stood beside him wondering if I should even speak; perhaps there were no words that could be said.

Without a sound, I turned towards Holmes' and leaned my head upon his shoulder. He neither reacted nor made any acknowledgment of my gesture at first. I was beginning to decide that my decision was folly when he finally reacted. His arm went around my own shoulder and he rested his head on top of mine. Needless to say, I was shocked by his reciprocity. The familiar clop and bustle of the hansom fell upon our ears after a few minutes. Holmes almost immediately pulled away and cleared his throat. He hailed the hansom and when it pulled up, brushed the horse and boarded the vehicle.

"Good night, Holmes."

"Good night, Charlotte."

He then told the cabbie his destination and faded away into the night.

* * *

It was not until a week later that I received a telegram from Holmes. It simply said: 

**CHARLOTTE LONDON BE READY TO LEAVE TODAY.**

**HOLMES**

Mum's voice sailed into my ears a mere moment after I finished reading the telegram.

"Charlotte, where are you?"

"In my room, Mum!" I replied to her inquiry.

She soon made herself present in my open doorway and cheerily proclaimed, "Charlotte, I have a surprise for you!"

"Oh?" I innocently asked while discreetly crumpling the piece of paper in my hand.

"Your dear Mr. Holmes has decided to take you to the Sussex Downs with him to visit his great aunt. I know that this is rather short notice, but I think that you deserve a little time away from Oxford. Rest and recuperation will do you good."

"When will he be coming to take me away?" I asked as I surreptitiously placed the crumpled telegram into my pocket.

"He said that he should be arriving at half past two. He will take you to the train station and you will leave on the 3:35 train. Charlotte, you haven't yet said a word."

"Well, I'm just speechless that you would do all this for me!" I said as I rose and gave her a hug. "Thank you! Thank you so much!"

She returned the embrace warmly. "Now go on and pack!"

I followed her instructions and packed my suitcase with several changes of clothing, various unmentionables, toiletry necessities, and, of course, a couple of good books. It was very difficult to make a decision as I had to choose between a volume of Poe's poetry and an anthology of Dylan Thomas. Ultimately, Poe prevailed over Thomas and, packing Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass as its traveling companion, I shut the suitcase, grabbed my walking stick, and waited for Holmes in the parlor

He arrived at exactly half past two. He engaged in some idle conversation with Mum and then introduced us to his aunt. His aunt was quite a sight to behold. Unlike the lean frame that was Holmes, his aunt was rather large and her voluminous skirts only enhanced her hefty figure.Yet, from her strong jaw and the introspective grey eyes, I could tell that she was clearly Holmes' kin.

"Charlotte, this is my Aunt Violet." Holmes introduced me to his relation. "Aunt Violet, this is Charlotte Andrewes. She was the young lady I was telling you about."

Aunt Violent bent toward me to very closely inspect my person; after a few minutes, she finally declared, "You seem like a suitable young lady for my nephew."

Holmes pulled out his pocket watch and then said, "We need to head for the station to make the train on time."

"Well, you two have fun and enjoy yourselves." Mum declared and brought me into a tight embrace. She then added in a whisper, "Not too much fun though, mind you."

"Oh, Mum!" I groaned and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. I pulled away and followed Holmes and his large aunt out the door. "Bye!"

She blew me a kiss and waved good-bye from the doorway. I could not help but feel a slight pang of guilt and loneliness from seeing her petite frame behind the door. She would be all alone in that house and it did not feel right leaving her on her own. I nearly rushed back to Mum's side when I felt a hand rest on my shoulder.

"She will be all right," Holmes gently assured me.

I looked back at him and he nodded. Holmes opened the brougham's door and allowed his aunt to step inside. He extended his hand to assist me. I chuckled softly and instead gave him my walking stick and boarded on my own. Holmes followed and shut the door. The brougham began to move and I looked back at Mum until we rounded the corner. I faced towards the front of the brougham where I saw Aunt Violet looking through the window. Holmes was inspecting the walking stick he had given me on my birthday from the seat opposite me. He smiled as though the walking stick had told him a private joke and then returned it to me. I met Holmes' eyes and returned his earlier nod.

* * *

We arrived at the train station and it was then that it occurred to me that Holmes and I were supposed to go to London. Sussex, our supposed destination, was quite far from the city. 

"Holmes," I called him as he returned from the ticket booth. "You told my mother that we would be traveling to Sussex."

"A well-executed excuse," he replied as a proud smirk emerged on his face. His normal arrogance was surfacing again. "Come, let us board the train for London."

"But your aunt…" I began to reason out, pointing towards the matronly woman sitting on the bench.

"Everything will be explained when we find ourselves a private compartment on board." Holmes answered with asperity. He went over to his aunt and said, "Dear Aunt Violet, the train has arrived."

"Thank you, Sherlock," she spoke in a shrill tone as she took Holmes' arm. They walked past me and boarded. I turned around and took one final look at my Oxford. I breathed a sigh, spun around at the sound of the train whistle, and quickly boarded. I found the compartment, hastily entered, and sat down in the seat opposite Holmes and his aunt. I watched the flickering landscape for awhile and then turned my attentions back to the Holmes and his Aunt Violet.

"Sherlock, what is this?" I queried with forced patience as I glanced at his aunt, who seemed to be quite interested in the depths of her purse. I took advantage of her distraction and yanked on his tie causing him to jerk forward in his seat. I edgily whispered, "Are you taking me on some sort of family reunion? I swear, I already tend to lose my patience with you. I certainly do not need an entire family probing me."

Holmes slowly pried my fingers away from his tie then fixed his jacket with a shrug. He then turned to his aunt and said in a light voice, "There is no need for this silly charade any longer."

"Finally," an incongruous deep voice emerged from the large woman. "This is a practically disgraceful situation you have me involved in, Sherlock. I have no idea why I even agreed to this."

"Because," Holmes replied testily. "You owed me a favor and I decided to take you up on that offer. Tit for tat." Holmes then turned back to me and seemed wholeheartedly amused by the perplexed look on my face. "Now, Charlotte, that look will twist your pretty face."

I gawped at Holmes and his _aunt_ for a moment. Holmes reached out and pushed my chin up to close my mouth.

"What the deuce is going on, Holmes? Is this some sort of early April Fool's practical joke?"

"Be polite, you wouldn't want to upset my dear Aunt Violet now, would you?" Holmes said mildly as his grey eyes danced with amusement. He wanted to continue this little game but when he saw my hands gripping the walking stick tighter than usual, Holmes finally relented. "Very well, yes, Charlotte, we are going to London. This entire charade with my dear Aunt Violet was merely a plot to get you out of your house." I was about to argue when he spoke over me. "And I assure you that this is not an early April Fool's joke."

"And your dear Aunt Violet?" I asked as I leaned back in the seat and crossing my arms across my chest.

"I've mentioned him a couple of times but you have never been formally introduced. Charlotte, meet my older brother, Mycroft Holmes."

Mycroft pulled the bonnet and wig off of his head and extended his hand towards me. "An infinite pleasure, Miss Andrewes."


	14. London Particulars

The true Mycroft Holmes finally appeared after he peeled away the layers of lace and taffeta. Like the faux Aunt Violet, he was a corpulent person who seemed to move about in a slow and deliberate fashion. Both brothers possessed those meditative eyes and towering statures but, like many siblings, retained different traits. Lean and angular Sherlock was a bundle of nerves and energy; though seated with his legs extended in front of him, his mind was sprinting at a pace that was faster than the train. Mycroft, on the other hand, was the complete opposite; he had fallen asleep after an hour of traveling.

We arrived at the opulent Charing Cross Station just as twilight hit London. We briskly exited the station along with the other passengers and passed by the most romantic structure I had ever seen, an Eleanor cross. I used the time of waiting for the brougham to observe the edifice; it was an intricately-carved marble spire with the Eleanor of Castile's, the wife of King Edward I, likeness. I could not help but sigh at the sheer beauty of its gothic arches which stretched toward the heavens.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" I declared more to myself than the others. Holmes took his eyes off of the busy streets and merely glanced at the cross.

"A bleak Gothic eyesore," Holmes sneered then returned to his vigil.

"Have you no taste?" I exclaimed causing several passers-by to give me an odd, appraising look. I quickly remedied my voice to a lower volume. "It's a prime example of the beauty of medieval architecture and the romanticism of the period. There were several of these majestic monuments built throughout London and only a handful of them are left, Holmes! They're practically priceless works of art."

Holmes returned my tirade with a raised eyebrow and sighed. He then gazed at the marble cross for a moment and said, "I agree that the cross is beautiful in its construction. It showcases some of the finer aspects of Gothic detail such as the chevron molding and vaulted arches. However, do you not find it odd that the cross looks more like a headstone instead of a romantic monument? I just think that the overall look of the piece is dreary and perhaps slightly morbid when it is supposed to be an adoring tribute to a woman he loved. Do you agree? Oh, and Charlotte, just because something is old does not essentially make it a work of art."

My jaw essentially dropped in shock. I would never understand this man's limits. I felt I could not say anything else and Holmes seemed to feel the same way. He returned to watching the streets while whistling a jaunty tune.

I was about to argue once more when Mycroft turned to his brother and amusingly inquired, "Is this natural between the both of you?"

"Yes," we answered in unison.

Mycroft laughed in a low rumble just as a brougham rolled up. We poured ourselves into the brougham with the Holmes brothers occupying one side and I on the opposite seat, with my suitcase on the seat next to me. Mycroft turned around to face the driver.

" Pall Mall , please," said Mycroft.

"Right-o, sir!" The cabbie cried out and with the snap of a whip, the brougham began to cruise along with the rest of the London traffic. The brothers began to converse amongst themselves as the brougham moved through the streets. I stopped paying attention and shifted my focus to the streets outside. Night was approaching fast and so was that yellow tinged, acrid murkiness known as the _London particular_. Many pedestrians walked at a brisk pace as if it were in a race with the impending fog. We passed The Strand, the hub of London nightlife and the theatre experience, where my eyes briefly caught the glittering gaslights of the theatres. As usual, Trafalgar Square was smothered with swarms of pigeons; Nelson's Column wore the pigeons perched on his hat as if they were decoration. We turned onto Pall Mall and I belatedly realized that two pairs of grey eyes were currently staring at me.

"Sorry, I wasn't paying attention," I apologized as I wrenched my eyes away from the window.

"Clearly," Holmes sardonically agreed. "I was just telling Mycroft the entire story beginning with your father's murder."

"I see." I nodded and then turned to Mycroft. "Mr. Holmes, what do you think about the entire situation?"

"Well," he unhurriedly drawled as he crossed his arms across his wide chest. "The entire affair is quite troubling. Now, Miss Andrewes, you told my brother that the person who grabbed you on Folly Bridge sounded familiar. Perhaps you could describe the tone of his voice for us and perhaps we can assist your memory retrieval."

"It was a man's voice. He sounded flat and nasal," I said after pondering for a moment.

Holmes made a dismissive noise. "That could practically describe everything from a person who has a cold to a Northerner—"

"Sherlock," Mycroft interrupted with a warning tone. Holmes silenced himself and scowled. Mycroft added, "I saw that." He noisily cleared his throat and continued. "Was this voice you heard Northern sounding or perhaps from other places around the country?"

I sharply exhaled through my mouth which caused my bangs to flutter in the air. Biting my lip in thought, I tried to recreate that moment on Folly Bridge; Iremembered the pain of his vise-like grip, his breath blowing in my ear, and the fear trickling down my spine.

"He sounded like my father, come to think about it," I mused aloud and almost immediately after I muttered those words, I felt as if I had been slapped across the face. "Idiot," I thought to myself. "It was staring at me right in the face!" I should have known all along. "I know why that voice is familiar now." I turned to Holmes as my skin tingled in expectation. "Remember I told you about the argument I had between Dad and I in the Bodleian? The man he was talking to, _that's_ who it was that grabbed me on Folly Bridge."

Holmes nodded with his index finger pressed tightly against his mouth. "At that time, you said that the man who was speaking with your father sounded similar. How did it sound similar?"

"My father had a really flat delivery when it came to speaking. I'm sure you remember, Mycroft, if you were a student of his."

Mycroft smiled wanly. "Yes, I found his lectures were often quite fascinating."

"I think, though," I began to say when a cough racked me. Holmes had started smoking during some point of the conversation and the brougham was practically consumed with the scent of tobacco. "Holmes, kindly toss out your cigarette. I'd rather not die of asphyxiation."

He grumbled as he took one final puff and proceeded to toss it into the streets. I thanked him and continued what I was supposed to say.

"As I was saying, my father's voice while flat is a tad softer in its tone. He immigrated to England when he was younger; after two decades residing in the country, his voice softened to include the tones of Oxford residents."

"Where was your father originally from?" Mycroft inquired just as the brougham began to slow down.

"Born and raised in Boston," I replied.

"Then, we can deduce that the man who grabbed you at Folly Bridge and the man in the library are the same person…" Holmes stated as he straightened his tie.

"And that this man is a Boston native." Mycroft finished for his brother. The brothers gravely nodded as the brougham pulled to a stop. He looked up at his flat as he exited the brougham. Holmes and I followed in his wake. "It seems that we have come to a conclusion in more ways than one. Now, come inside. My housekeeper has cooked a nice pheasant for dinner."

* * *

We were greeted by a musical Scouse accent drifting in from the kitchen following the clanging of several pots and pans. After a couple of minutes, a plump, middle-aged woman emerged from the kitchen with a welcoming grin on her face. Her cheery brown eyes fell upon me and she practically shrieked with glee. 

"Cor blimey, I never thought I'd see Master Mycroft come home with a lady!" she cried out as she approached me and shook my hand. Mycroft grumbled in response to the housekeeper's proclamations while Holmes snickered and began to tease him. "My name is Mrs. Costello and if you need anything, my dear, then I'm the one to holler at. Oh, how silly of me to dither on and on when I haven't caught your name."

I could not help but grin at her effervescence. "It's Charlotte, Mrs. Costello."

"Charlotte ! What a lovely name! I knew a girl named Charlotte once but she wasn't as beautiful as you are. Now, why don't we get you settled in the guest room…" She grasped my arm tightly and started to steer me through the house. I looked back at Holmes; he shifted his teasing from Mycroft to teasing me. I managed to stick out my tongue at him before being wrenched down the hallway.

The guest room was at the end of the hallway; it was a small room with a large bed and adequately-sized armoire. I placed my suitcase next to the bed and peered through the window. The pea soup fog had completely taken over Pall Mall.

"Is there anything else you need, luv?" Mrs. Costello asked while she fluffed up one of the pillows. Her eyes fell on my walking stick and I felt my cheeks burn red. She must have noticed for she began to make _tut-tut_ sounds. "There's nothing to be ashamed of, dear. Everyone needs some help from time to time and besides, it's such a lovely cane. Now, enough of that and let's go back into the sitting room. I don't think it's wise to leave those lads by themselves for too long."

Holmes and Mycroft were seated in opposite chairs in front of the fireplace when I resurfaced from the guest room. Mycroft was gesturing at the front page of _The Times_ and was talking about India's politics when his eyes fell on me. He immediately silenced himself as I took my seat on the sofa.

"Sorry, did I come into the conversation at the wrong time?"

"Mycroft takes great care in not discussing his occupation with complete strangers," Holmes informed me as he tapped his cigarette into the ashtray. "Mrs. Costello will have dinner ready by quarter-past-six ."

"I see." I nodded and then something occurred to me. "Er… Mr. Holmes, do you only have one guest room?"

"Yes," he replied as he opened up the cigar box on the table. "Do you mind if I smoke, Miss Andrewes?"

I shook my head. "No, I don't mind." I then turned towards Holmes. "I like your brother. At least he asks my permission when he smokes." I processed the information that Mycroft told me and then burst out, "I am not sleeping in the same bed with you, Holmes!"

Holmes responded by blowing a steady stream of smoke in my direction. "Charlotte, I assure you that we will not be sleeping in the same bed. I will be sleeping on the sofa for the duration of our stay." He mischievously smirked and added, "Sorry to disappoint you."

"You're right, I'm terribly disappointed... disappointed that you won't be sleeping on the pavement, you--"

"Dinner is ready!" Mrs. Costello declared with a theatrical flourish of her hands.

"Perhaps a decent supper will sooth our senses," Mycroft said in a hopeful tone as he took a puff off of his cigar. Holmes and I both snorted in response to Mycroft's statement. The elder brother shook his head and chortled to himself. "I honestly cannot see how people think that you are courting each other."

* * *

Mrs. Costello cooked a fine meal and I actually ate more than I intended, though I think that was more because of the fact that the good housekeeper piled so much food on my plate and watched me eat with a hawk-like stare. Mycroft tore into his pheasant with gusto and it was not until much later until we began to discuss. 

"Mycroft, when you have finished devouring the oxygen around you, could we please start discussing the matter of Mr. Thaddeus Hepburn?"

Mycroft glared at his younger sibling as he wiped himself with the napkin. "How childish of you, Sherlock. I think that those university boys are bringing it out in you." He took a sip of red wine and then proceeded. "Mr. Thaddeus Hepburn died the seventeenth of March, which was approximately two weeks ago. According to eyewitnesses, neither did anyone go in or out of the house nor did anything strange happen_."_

"Considering that he lives in Kensington, I'm sure that Mr. Hepburn has a garden where anyone can just jump over the fence unnoticed," Holmes added with a grave nod.

"I am sure that is the case," Mycroft agreed and added, "I must admit though that I have not yet traveled to Mr. Hepburn's home to see it for myself."

I was seated next to Holmes and heard him mumble, "I am not surprised."

It seemed that Mycroft heard him as well. "Did you say something, Sherlock?"

"No, nothing at all. Please continue," Holmes said, giving me a sidelong glance as if to warn me not to mention what he had originally said. As much as I wanted to snitch, I could not since my mouth was currently filled with a large spoonful of Mrs. Costello's chocolate pudding.

"By the time the fire brigade came, the fire had spread through the entire house. The fire was extinguished more than an hour later and soon after entering the structure, they discovered Mr. Hepburn's charred remains." I had just swallowed some chocolate pudding when he said that and I immediately lost my appetite. I pushed my plate away from me and took a large swig of wine.

"Has the Yard said whether they think he was dead before the fire or whether he was burned alive?" Holmes asked as he ignored my apparent disgust at topic. Honestly, if this is what constituted as normal conversation in the Holmes household… well, not even Mrs. Costello could make me eat more.

Mycroft was about to answer when I interrupted. "I'm sorry, but how is that you know all of this information?"

"Mycroft's place of employment is in Whitehall," Holmes simply stated. I immediately took the hint; Whitehall housed the administrative buildings of the government. It explained why a man who had just entered his thirties owned such an attractive home in one of London 's most affluent neighborhoods. Mycroft harrumphed rather noisily at his younger brother.

"As I was saying," Mycroft said as he returned to the subject. "I have no information concerning the Yard's investigation. I suggest that you make a visit in the morning." Mycroft began to dig through his coat pockets before pulling out a small card. "See this man and tell him that I sent you. Otherwise, as the youth say, he'll 'get his knickers into a twist.'"

"Duly noted," replied Holmes. He then reached over to receive the card, briefly glanced at it and pocketed it. He shook his head and muttered, "Damn, if only we had arrived in London earlier. By now people's perceptions have settled into normal, misleading notions and it will be much harder to filter through what is truth and perception."

"You do know that you could have gone alone," I said with asperity. I certainly did not want to be blamed for our late arrival.

"Yes, I know that I could have gone alone. It is just that… well…"

Mycroft finished his sentence in a humorous fashion. "He did not want to leave his lady love back in Oxford; he would miss her far too much."

Holmes directly pounced on Mycroft while his face turned a ruddy color resulted from either anger or embarrassment. "Don't interrupt me, Mycroft! And it certainly is not because of any emotional reasons." He then became aware of his outburst, cleared his throat, and took a sip of wine before continuing. "I just thought that since this affair drastically affected her life, it would be best to follow this case through in her presence. It would also be nice to have another pair of eyes to observe and possibly assist me."

Mycroft smiled then said in a voice dripping with disbelief, "Are you sure that it has nothing to do with the fact that she's a fairly attractive young lady?"

"You do know that I'm still sitting amongst you, _gentlemen!_" I cried out, almost waving my hands in the air to show that I was still here.

"Well," Holmes said as he savagely took a swig of wine, "I'm finished with dinner so if you'll excuse me."

As Holmes departed from the table, Mycroft looked at me with humor in his eyes and said, "Sherlock has always been so sensitive."

* * *

After dinner, the Holmes brothers returned to the sitting room and talked amongst themselves for awhile. I did not feel like listening to their verbal volleys at the moment and, instead, sat on the window seat with my knees tucked under my chin, looking out the large bay window. This particular London fog had started to fade into the night and slowly revealed the street below. The gaslights glowed golden against the night as it illuminated several pedestrians along the street. A majority of the passers-by below were finely dressed upper-class men fresh from their ventures in the many gentlemen's clubs around Pall Mall. In their wake, a cluster of young women were giggling and nearly falling over the young men. They faded away into the night just as the reliable English constable emerged from the fog for his nightly watch. I watched his stalwart progress along the pavement for awhile and wondered if he had a family. What did his wife think about her husband putting himself in danger every night? Did he ever get frightened every time he set foot onto the streets? My mind soon became as foggy as it was outside and I fell into a deep sleep. 

It was most likely the combination of travel and a hearty meal that allowed me to sleep so well. My last pleasant slumbers were before my father's death. After some time had passed, I felt someone hold my emaciated left arm and I simultaneously wrenched my arm away and snapped awake. My eyes adjusted to the low glow of the gas lamps and I saw that it was Holmes.

"I don't like people touching my arm, Holmes," I remarked as I rubbed my eyes.

"Sorry," he apologized. "I only wanted to take you to your room instead of leaving you sleeping in a curled up position like that."

"That's fine, but please don't touch my arm," I sleepily reminded him as he helped me get up and took me to my room.

"I will take care to remember that."

He took me to my room and leaned against the doorway. "Your mother would be quite happy to know that you actually slept."

"I sleep," I retorted as I took my hair out of its tight bun and shook it loose. "My mother means that I sleep poorly. Now, I need to change into my nightgown, so I'm shutting the door in your face."

I shut the door then changed into my nightgown and my comfortable yet threadbare dressing gown. I opened the door again and Holmes returned to his position by the doorway. I pilfered through my suitcase and pulled out my hairbrush. I walked over to the mirror and began running the brush through my hair. Holmes came into the room and stood by the wall looking at my reflection with an appraising sort of look. I stopped then turned around.

"What's wrong?"

He appeared to be choosing his words wisely. "It's nothing… I just… I have never seen your hair that way."

"Oh," was all I could say in response to his statement. I returned to brushing my hair and attempted to act normally. Nothing has happened,_ Charlotte, so why would you have to act?_ I asked myself. I tried _being _normal but I still noticed that my face turned a slight shade of pink. I loosely tied my hair with a spare ribbon, put my hairbrush on the nightstand, and then turned back to Holmes. "Is it safe to guess that tomorrow will be a long day?"

He winced as though he had been punched in the gut. "Never guess. Guessing is a degenerative force on one's mind."

I sighed and then repeated my question for his benefit. "Is it safe to _deduce_ that tomorrow will be a long day?"

"It will definitely be most productive," he said, his voice becoming distorted by a yawn. He stretched out his long limbs.

"Are you sure you will be fine on the sofa?" I asked as I got underneath the bedcovers.

"Yes, I will be fine," Holmes wearily replied. "Unless you want to switch places."

"Absolutely not!" I cried out. "It is not right for a woman to sleep on a sofa."

"You only use your femininity when it suits you," he quipped. "And, besides, it was only a joke for my amusement. You are honestly making too much out of the situation."

"Oh, hush!" I exclaimed as I threw my pillow in his direction. He closed the door and the pillow harmlessly bounced off the door. He opened it and poked his head in.

"That last action has only solidified my claims that you are overreacting." He said with a sly smile on his pale face. "Good night, Charlotte." He then closed the door and left me alone.

I turned off the gas lamp and turned to my side in a huff. _Damn Holmes_, I thought to myself. I sat up to fluff my pillow and then lay back down. I was still uncomfortable and I realized that I needed another pillow. Unfortunately, the spare pillow was on the floor and I was too lazy to get back up.

I called for Holmes. "Holmes? Can you get my pillow?"

I was greeted by utter silence.

"Holmes?"

"Good night, Charlotte," he repeated.

"Damn him," I groaned as I buried my head under the solitary pillow.

* * *

I woke up just as the sun was breaking through the sheer curtains. I sat on my bed and lifted up my nightgown to my thighs. I extended my left leg into the air and massaged the muscles. Memories of my convalescence slowly and unwillingly unfolded in my mind's eye as I kneaded my leg. I pushed those thoughts out of my mind, pushed down my gown, and proceeded to massage my arm. 

Holmes had said that today was to be a productive day, which meant that it would also be an exhaustive day as well. I reached for my walking stick, towel, and bathrobe and subsequently walked down the hallway towards the bathroom. The hallway was quiet except for the sonorous snores emerging from Mycroft's bedroom. I reached the bathroom and opened the door.

Holmes was inside and I immediately turned my head in the other direction. "Sorry, should've knocked," I mumbled and began to close the door when my eyes caught something odd.

What I saw was a small instrument case similar to something that I had seen in James' medical offices. I opened the door and took a good look. Holmes' appearance was disheveled and he looked as if he had just woken up; his dark hair fell over his forehead and he was only dressed in a sleeveless undershirt and pants. A handkerchief was tightly tied on his left arm; in his right hand, he held a hypodermic needle dripping with its contents. I finally looked up at Holmes' face and met his steely gaze. My eyes then returned to his left arm and I saw a number of puncture marks dotting the flesh. It then occurred to me what he was doing and why he winced when I touched his left arm.

"Is that… is that morphine?" I queried with a hoarse and horrified voice.

He answered in a tone better suited for polite conversation instead of the present serious circumstances. "Actually, it is a seven-per-cent solution of cocaine."


	15. Sticks and Stones

**_Sorry for the delay. I was on spring break in San Francisco with no real time for computer access and I wanted to give my poor wrists a rest. Oh, and this chapter was so HARD to write and I am extremely thankful to MeGoobie for her help. I would have gone insane without her assistance. This one's my favorite so far...hope you guys enjoy it!_**

* * *

"Now that you know of my habits, my dear Charlotte, would you please shut the door behind you as you depart?" His question was polite, yet it was clear that this was a stern demand for me to leave. 

"You know me better than that, Holmes," I stated softly; the initial shock had begun to erode and was slowly being replaced by resentment and hurt.

He sighed and his lips curved into a sardonic smile. "Ah, well, one can hope. Nonetheless, I am still going to take this injection." He lowered the needle towards his skin. He would have injected himself if my hand had not reached out and grabbed his wrist. Holmes quietly chuckled as though the entire situation was humorous. However, his voice was entirely serious and had a rather dangerous edge to it. "If you intended to stop me, you should not have seized me with your _weak_ arm."

The intention of the last comment was to sting and to ultimately cause me to abandon this argument. While he did manage to sting me, I could not leave this subject alone; we could not very well continue our partnership with this dark cloud hanging over our heads.

I stood my ground. "If you intended me not to come in, you should have locked the door."

Holmes winced at his indiscretion and realized that I was correct; after all, he had woken up at the break of dawn to avoid a scene like this from happening. It was a trivial matter of locking the door; yet, he had not. I looked at the incensed appearance of his face; perhaps in his arrogance he had thought he could get away without locking the door. I felt a savage pleasure at that thought. It was about time that his overconfidence got the best of him.

He wrenched himself from my grasp and then acidly retorted, "Your grip is pitiful. It is a miracle that you can manage to hold onto anything." He placed the needle on the counter and then sat down on the rim of the bathtub. I shut the door behind me, crossed my arms, and leaned on the door.

I took this moment to further inspect this person before me. The normally fastidious Holmes sat immediately in front of me, his dark brown hair messily hanging over his brow and a day's worth of stubble along his jaw. What struck me most was the almost feral look in those otherwise cultivated and civilized grey eyes. He resembled an animal trapped in a corner with nowhere else to run; an animal in this situation was bound to strike.

"I suppose that you will tell me of the dangers of cocaine and make other various arguments that will undoubtedly convince me to stop." Holmes inspected his nails and then looked back at me with what appeared to be bored eyes; yet, I could already see the glimmer of annoyance blooming therein. He sighed and then declared, "Let us make things easier for both of us, shall we? I am not like the other intoxicated idiots who inject dose after dose into themselves until they die of overdoses. I only give myself the optimum dosage that will give me the best effects and not kill me."

"Oh, and that makes you smarter then?" I questioned in an even voice as I attempted to mimic Holmes' cool tone. "As I can see, Holmes, you are quite the seasoned cocaine user. Is it safe to assume that you are fully aware of the indications of cocaine use?" He did not answer. "Anxiety burgeoning on the brink of paranoia is among those symptoms, am I right?" There was still no answer, though I took his silence as an agreement. "How am I to trust you when you make decisions when you are intoxicated? I refuse to place my life in the hands of a drug addict, no matter how capable he may be when sober."

"Your loss," he simply replied.

I wanted to wring this man's neck for his sheer arrogance and was about to do so. What stopped me was an extremely subtle movement on his part; his hands tightly closed around the edge of the bathtub and then released their grip. Holmes' gaze shifted down to his punctured arm and he began to shift the arm away from my view. It then occurred to me that his arrogance and casual, bland attitude shielded the much more vulnerable emotion of shame. This was confirmed by the realization that he had not looked me in the eye since the beginning of this episode.

He cleared his throat and continued in that unconcerned tone, "While I appreciate your concern, I have said that I have heard all of these arguments before. Honestly, they begin to bore me."

"I know that it is the fashion among certain circles to take cocaine. Yet, you are hardly the type of person to keep up with the trends or even care about following what is _de rigueur_." He still would not look at me and it made me absolutely furious that he would not. I approached him until my face was within an inch of his. "So, tell me, Holmes, what void are you trying to fill?"

We stared at each other for a good moment, my green eyes looking into his grey. I wholeheartedly regret my next actions, for not only was it conducted out of sheer malice, but it also deeply wounded me and, perhaps, Holmes as well.

"I am terribly saddened by my father's death. However, I have more productive channels to express my grief. I do not resort to the temporary pleasure of drugs to drown my sorrows." The implication of my words rendered his face both astonished and livid. My mouth opened to say more but then I was stopped by a tight and almost painful grip on my left shoulder. His eyes smoldered and, though he spoke in the same light tone, there was now a savage bite in his words.

"Don't you dare…" he began to say before changing his mind; instead, he coldly stated, "Never assume that you know who I am. A weak, naïve, spoiled, and crippled female has absolutely no right to tell me how I think or what motivates me." He let go of my shoulder and slammed the door behind him.

Now that he had stormed off, the blunt force of his verbal blows resonated through me. Tears began to uncontrollably flow and I cursed myself for crying. After all, it is often said that "sticks and stones may break one's bones but words will never hurt one." Despite this knowledge, my crying continued as steadily as the waters of the Cherwell. I blackly mused that I was lucky I had chosen to cry now instead of in his presence; Holmes' words would have attacked me with an even greater ferocity if the man had seen the tears currently trailing down my face. I locked the door behind me and then proceeded to turn on the bath.

Holmes and I had gotten into many arguments over the course of our association. Our squabbles would often end some conversation with a sarcastic yet humorous comment from one of us and the white flag would be raised. Holmes had once mused after one such argument that we were the "friendliest of enemies." Our conversations were buried with razor-sharp barbs aimed at each other. It was normal and utterly routine.

This was definitely not one of those habitual rows. His statements concerning my disability were not the sarcastic jocularities that I had become accustomed to hearing; his remarks were intended to harm and to wound. I shed my clothing and gingerly stepped into the warm, soapy water once the bath was full. The words remained with me no matter how hard I tried to rinse them from my mind. I submerged my head in the warm water as a horrible thought sunk into my mind.

_Was that all I was to was to him? A weak, naïve, spoiled and crippled female?_

* * *

I barricaded myself in my room for the duration of the morning. Unlike Holmes, I locked the door so that no one would disturb me. The fragrant aromas of the solid English breakfast being prepared downstairs drifted into my nostrils while I dressed. I was sorely tempted to venture out to the dining room and dine on some of Mrs. Costello's delicious cooking. Yet, I could not; to go out of my rooms would mean to subject myself to the brooding grey gazes of the Holmes brethren. I attempted to ignore my grumbling stomach and instead turned to packing my suitcase. 

Heavy footsteps sounded in the empty hallway and I stiffened. The footsteps stopped at the sound of a familiar voice.

"Mycroft, I shall save you the trouble and tell you that Miss Andrewes will not be dining with us this morning."

I pressed my ear against the door to listen to the rest of the conversation. Silence briefly greeted my ears. I was about to continue packing when I heard the low rumble of Mycroft Holmes.

"What happened, Sherlock? What did you—"

"Nothing," Holmes slashed through his brother's question. "It is none of your concern."

"But Sherlock—"

Quick footsteps lightly treaded away from earshot. "I will be out."

I heard the front door slam shut followed by an exasperated sigh. "I do hope you are in a better mood when you return, you oversized bird of prey."

A smile managed to form despite the black mood I was in. The heavy footsteps tramped away after some time.

My hair had sufficiently dried by this time and decided to fix it. However, it decided not to cooperate today. After some struggling, I finally managed to arrange my hair into a severe bun and then finished by angrily jabbing several pins into it with more force than I had intended.

A knock on the door wrenched my attentions away from my troublesome hair. Reluctance stopped me from opening the door even though I already knew that Holmes had left. _Get yourself together, Charlotte_, I mentally shook myself. I opened the door and tentatively poked my head through the opening.

No one was in the hallway. _Odd_, I mused. I began to close the door when my eyes fell upon a tray with a plate full of Mrs. Costello's wares complete with a steaming cup of cocoa. I doubted that cocoa was a regular order in Mycroft's household, but that was the least of my concerns. I quickly snatched the tray and, before taking it inside my room, called out into the hallway, "Thank you, dear Mycroft."

I heard the rustle of a newspaper as I closed the door.

* * *

The rain began to pour down from the heavens around noon. From what I could hear through the guestroom door, Holmes had not yet returned from his outing. _Hopefully, he returns to the flat practically drenched,_ I maliciously ruminated. I found my Edgar Allan Poe poetry book underneath the bed and tossed it into my luggage. 

I balled up my dressing gown and flung it into the suitcase with the rest of my things. I looked around the room to check if I had forgotten anything; when I was satisfied that I had packed everything, I went to shut my suitcase. Unfortunately, my suitcase would not close due to the haphazard nature in which I had thrown all of my belongings. I was much too lazy to refold and organize everything properly; hence, I sat on top of my luggage and finally managed to shut it.

I placed the suitcase near the door and then turned to the mirror. Upon further inspection, I realized that my eyes were puffy and red. I cursed myself for my obviously distressed appearance; the Holmes brethren would be able to see everything. _Well_,I thought to myself, _If I managed to keep my head down and my face out of sight, perhaps they will not notice_. I morosely laughed at that thought, retrieved my suitcase, and briskly walked out the door.

I had not walked very far when I bumped into something solid and bony. I attempted to walk around it, but the body in front of me managed to block my every move. I threw my suitcase onto the floor in contempt.

"Move." I addressed the pair of gleaming black leather shoes.

"No," the shoes' owner answered.

"Please move," I pleaded and immediately regretted the whiny quality my voice had taken on.

"No," was the answer once again. Long, thin fingers reached out for my arms, but I evaded them as though they were the hands of the devil. "Charlotte, I—"

"There is no need to apologize, Holmes," I interrupted in a brisk manner; my eyes now focused on the aged wooden floor. _How curious_, I randomly mused, _He did not feel the least damp_. My eyes traveled to the coat rack where a dripping umbrella hung. _Ah, I see._ "I merely thought that if I am holding you back, I have no other purpose than to go back home. After all, what use is a naïve and crippled woman like me?" I released a shaky breath and then attempted to push him out of the way.

He barely budged. _Perhaps, if I use my other side instead of my _weaker _side, I could push him away_, I sullenly pondered. We silently stood facing each other in the hallway; clearly, we stood at a stalemate. Holmes reached out with his hand again and gingerly lifted my chin; my face was suddenly exposed. He saw the stillborn tears wavering in my eyes. My eyes locked on his for a moment and I briefly saw regret in them. _No, _I firmly thought to myself as I shoved his hand away, _I refuse to feel sorry for him_. I sniffled as I picked up my suitcase.

"I would like to leave, if you please."

"You are only polite to me when you are miserable."

"I am miserable. Don't you understand? I did not come to London to be harassed by a damned drug addict!"

The vitriol in my words caused Holmes to flinch. He scratched the back of his neck and said in a low whisper, "For what it is worth, Charlotte, I deeply regret what I said. I was extremely ashamed that you had found me in such a compromising position. That in turn caused me to lash out on you when I clearly should not." He sighed and added in an even lower whisper, "I do not want you to leave."

My eyes slowly and finally met those of the man standing in front of me. It was clear that he was as uncomfortable as I was. I felt not only distrust concerning his drug abuse, but also hurt; as much as I hated to admit it, Holmes had become my sole support after my father's death and his hiding of his addiction hurt me more so than the actual usage. If he was hiding this, what else was he hiding? On the other hand, Holmes was clearly uncomfortable, not only due to his emotional outburst in the bathroom, but also due to this recent admission; the discomfort was all over his person. His jaw was tight, his hands were behind his back, and his foot tapped the floor in a staccato fashion.

He did not want me to leave. _Did that mean…?_

"Why?" I managed to ask through the lump rising in my throat.

Silence greeted my simple question. I finally managed to push my way past Holmes and started to walk away; at that moment, a voice abruptly sounded through the tangible silence.

"I need you," he said in a voice so low that I almost did not hear it. I turned around at that uncomplicated yet complicated statement. "It seems that our constant arguing has an unforeseen advantage; your arguments sometimes reveal an insight that I have failed to see. I will be the first to admit to you that I can do this by myself. However, when I set out to investigate the deceased Mr. Hepburn's residence in Kensington, I could not help but think that I had missed some important perspective or detail… perhaps if you were there, you may have seen…"

His voice trailed off into silence. It was completely jarring to hear these kinds of things coming from a man of his conduct. This was a man known for his fierce independent streak and for his solitary and almost misanthropic behavior. This was a man who had very few friends if he had them at all; a man who only sought companionship to suit his practical needs.

This very man was telling me that he needed me.

He found his voice and started to speak once more. "I once told you that I do not use the word 'friend' in a cavalier manner. Hence, believe me when I tell you that you have become a friend to me."

I let his words soak through my mind for a moment and then said, "Well, Holmes, you said that you can do this by yourself. However, I cannot simply forget what you have said to me. It would be foolish on my part to simply go on as if none of this had happened. You see, Holmes, not only did you hurt me but you hid from me. How can I trust someone that hides from me? I appreciate your sincerity in your apology but I cannot stay."

"Yes, I thought this would be so," Holmes said in a wistful imitation of his normally sardonic voice. "However, Charlotte, I must insist that you leave in the morning. As you may have noticed, the rain is pouring outside and I refuse to have you leave under such inclement conditions. I will be more than willing to escort you back to Oxford when the rain has passed."

I nodded in agreement. He then took my suitcase out of my hands and placed it next to the guest room door.

"Very well, Holmes," I replied as I started to walk to the dining room.

* * *

By three in the afternoon, the torrential rain had steadied to a steady patter. The colors of the twilight had painted the London skies by the time the rain stopped. I knew the train schedules by heart and was sure that there were still several trains I could catch. Yet, as I sat by the bay window in the sitting room, I knew that I did not want to leave tonight. I certainly did not want to show up at Oxford at some godforsaken hour. I would have to remain here for another night. 

Holmes sat in the large, winged armchair by the fire with a smoldering cigarette between his lips. He, too, knew that I would be staying the night but did not speak of it. This hypothesis was confirmed when I saw that the table had been set for three instead of two. We ate our dinner mostly in silence, excluding brief conversations between the brothers. There were times that I felt their thoughtful gazes fall upon me, but not a word passed between us. Mrs. Costello's dinner was as delicious as usual despite the unusually reserved atmosphere at the table.

I swallowed the last of my wine and then excused myself from the table. I took my empty plate to the kitchen to give the chef my compliments. Mrs. Costello was scrubbing a large pot when I entered the kitchen. She saw my reflection in the window before her, submerged the pot into the filled sink, and greeted me with an effervescent grin.

"Let me get that for ya, my dear." Mrs. Costello's keen eyes spotted the plate in my hand and instantly took it in her capable hands; the plate and silverware went into the sink with a clatter. She turned her attentions back to me. "Anythin' I can do for ya, Miss Charlotte?"

"Oh, Mrs. Costello, I just wanted to thank you for the delicious meal. If it were possible, I wish you could come home with me."

She positively beamed with pleasure. "Well, thank you for bein' so nice, Miss Charlotte. But, I'm afraid that Master Mycroft needs me more. He needs a woman's touch and all with him bein' the way he is."

Her loyalty to Mycroft was rather touching and I could not help but smile. An excited gasp escaped from her plump body.

"Why, Miss Charlotte, I believe that is the first time I've seen you smile all day."

"And it is about time as well," said a familiar voice.

"Evening, Holmes," I greeted in a solemn and civil tone. My smile faded slightly at the sound of his voice.

"Evening, Charlotte." He returned my greeting and then turned to Mrs. Costello. "I merely wanted to send my compliments to the chef on a satisfying dinner. My brother fails to realize what a gem he has in his possession."

"Oh, Master Sherlock, you're too much!" She shrieked in delight and playfully swatted him before she returned to her scrubbing.

A genial smile brightened Holmes' face; her glow even managed to infect _him_. He then turned towards me and said, "Yes, well… Charlotte, I wanted to ask if you would like to join me for a walk."

"What for?" I inquired.

"A mere whim," he lightly answered. "I know you will depart for Oxford in the morning and that you will end our partnership as soon as you arrive." _Was it just me or was there a wistful quality to his voice?_ "Treat this as a last request on my part… for old time's sake."

I noticed Mrs. Costello's scrubbing had slowed down in the midst of our conversation. I smiled and it brought back memories of Josephine doing the exact same thing whenever Holmes was around. A sudden pang of longing hit me; Oxford was calling me back into her arms.

Holmes also took notice of Mrs. Costello's obvious eavesdropping. A sly smile curved his lips. He loudly cleared his throat, causing her to jump in the air.

"Mrs. Costello, I believe that my brother may need some assistance in the dining room," Holmes firmly stated. Mrs. Costello understood the connotation of his comment and bowed out of the kitchen. Holmes chuckled when she had left the room. "Your Josephine is also guilty of the same behavior."

"Yes, she is," I agreed in muted amusement. I then sighed and said, "Very well, Holmes, I shall go out for an evening stroll on your arm for one last time. Give me a couple of minutes to rummage for a coat and my walking stick."

"Already got it," he said as he revealed my walking stick from behind his back. "Go grab your coat."

I sputtered, "How… how did you know I would agree?"

"My dear lady, I have known you for five months," he provided as an answer. He then repeated, "Go grab your coat."

"All right, you win," I surrendered with an exaggerated sigh. I snatched my walking stick from his open hands and exited the kitchen.

I secretly thanked Mrs. Costello for her contagious effervescence as I went to retrieve my coat. She had single-handedly managed to make my day slightly better… and perhaps Holmes' as well.

* * *

St. James's Park was mere minutes away from Mycroft's flat in Pall Mall. While I was thoroughly loyal to my Oxford, I had to admit that St. James was among the loveliest of places that I had ever been to. The lush green trees dipped their branches into the blue waters of the lake. Greenery dominated our fields of vision but shades of pinks, violets, and yellows dotted across the landscape in the form of flowers. We arrived just as the oranges and pinks of sunset were slowly fading into the inky blues and violets of early evening. 

"What's the reason for this stroll, Holmes?" I asked again.

"I did not think you would believe me when I stated that this was a mere whim." he replied. "Would you like to know the truth?" I nodded and he proceeded to tell me the real reason. "Activity tends to lessen my want for cocaine; the blood pumps on its own volition rather than by the artificial means of the drug."

"Oh," was the only reply I could muster.

"I also thought it would be better spent time if you came along rather than if I was brooding on my own," he added.

"I see that even you yourself admit that you can be quite the stick in the mud," I teased.

Holmes glowered at me in such a fierce manner that I muttered a quick apology and felt almost a decade younger than I was supposed to be.

Holmes and I circled the path along the park's lake and encountered very little in the way of disturbances; the only sounds that interrupted our serene stroll were the squawking and honking of the lake's several web-footed residents.

We passed by an elderly lady selling bread crumbs to feed the ducks. The ducks and geese in this park were quite smart and had gathered around the old woman's bench; they stood in a large flock as sentinels waiting for those golden morsels. A few of the bigger and fatter geese impatiently and hungrily squawked at the old lady. I laughed as the flock flapped their wings and screeched. These birds were nothing like the ill-tempered swans in the Isis.

I decided that I would cease their complaining for the moment and feed them. Unfortunately, the pockets of my coats carried nothing of monetary value. My spirits faded a bit; I certainly did not want to ask Holmes for money. We started to walk past when Holmes stopped.

"A bag of crumbs please." He pulled out a twopence from his pocket and placed it into the old lady's wrinkled palm.

She took the coin from her palm and carefully inspected it. She then took the coin to her mouth and bit it. Her wizened face turned to Holmes and nodded as though satisfied with the coin's authentication. The woman gave Holmes her paper bag. "Bless you, young man."

Holmes nodded, kindly smiled, and passed the paper bag to me without a word. We said "good-bye" to old woman and walked until we found a desirable spot by the lake.

I opened up the bag and tossed a few crumbs into a swimming cluster of ducks. "When I was a child, I used to be frightened of ducks." Holmes snorted as he dug inside the paper bag and scattered them into the water. "I would cry every time I saw a duck or a goose."

"Pray tell, what caused such a phobia?" He inquired with traces of laughter swimming into his voice.

"Don't mock me, Holmes. I did say I was a child." I cleared my throat and told him my reasons. "I was four or five years old. My parents took my siblings and me to the shores of the Isis for a picnic. My mother gave me some crumbs to feed the swans there. James and one of his friends were off running pell-mell as boys are wont to do. They were wrestling, pushing, and shoving each other when their adventures came a little too close; I was pushed in. Luckily, I was close to shore and the waters were shallow. However, the crumbs fell in with me and were floating around next to me. They enticed the swans and they crowded around me.

"Mind you, I was quite young when this happened; the flapping of wings and their horrible cries frightened me. I woke up many nights after that from nightmares of ducks and geese chasing after me."

Holmes nodded with the remnants of a smile upon his face. "I see." I passed the bag to him and he took another scoopful. "Why did you relate this amusing story to me?"

The bread sailed into the air and landed in the water. A speedy mallard cruised through the water and quickly took them into his beak. I sneaked some of the bread morsels into my mouth. I then said in a serious tone, "Well, Holmes, I now know what you are ashamed of; it is only fair that you know what I am ashamed of."

The occasional splash and the honking water fowls were the only sounds between us. Then a familiar yet unfamiliar sound shattered the silence. I turned to Holmes. His head was thrown back, his thin body shook, his arms tightly crossed over his chest, and the most delightful and humanitarian noise exuded from his mouth. He was helplessly drowning in laughter.

A smile was all that I initially allowed myself, but his laughter was so contagious that I could not help but join him. He finally calmed down and wiped his eyes. "I would not compare a phobia of water fowl with a cocaine addiction. Nevertheless…" Laughter prevented him from finishing the sentence. He soon settled himself and returned to his normally cool demeanor. We tossed a few more scraps into the water in silence.

Fingers brushed the insides of my left arm and wrapped loosely around my wrist. I would have ordinarily jerked my arm away, but there was something about it that felt… nice.

"Thank you, Charlotte," Holmes softly murmured. He promptly let go of my arm and crossed his arms across his chest. He cleared his throat and said in a clearer tone, "I needed a good laugh."

The last scoops went into the dark blue waters. I threw the bag away and we proceeded down the path once more.

"Do you miss Oxford?" he asked.

"Yes," I immediately answered. "It is the only home that I know." My walking stick inadvertently became stuck into a mud puddle. I had to stop and use both of my hands to pull it out. The walking stick came out with a discernable _pop_ and we continued our progress. I, in turn asked, "Do you miss Sussex?"

A palpable silence greeted my question. I was so absorbed in taking in the scenery that I belatedly noticed that there was only one set of footsteps and that they were mine. I turned around and saw Holmes a few paces behind me; his body turned toward the lake and his eyes took on that vague, pensive look.

_Idiot_, I silently cursed myself. I of all people knew how uncomfortable he was when it came to discussing his past.

"Holmes?"

"I do sometimes," he answered in a voice that I could barely hear. He rummaged through his pockets and fished out a cigarette. Instead of immediately placing it between his lips, he held it in his hand and asked, "Do you mind if I smoke?"

One of my eyebrows shot up in response. "You're really asking me? I never thought that would ever happen."

"That did not answer my question," he retorted; the familiar condescension and sarcasm returning to him. "May I smoke?"

"Better that than the cocaine," I blandly replied.

He flinched at my reply but did not rebuke. He placed the cigarette between his lips, pulled out his lighter, and lit it. Smoke trailed through his nostrils and he caught up with me. We continued our walk through the park.

It was during our fourth cycle around the park that I heard the unexpected sound of childish laughter; most children should be at home by this hour. Speedy footsteps sounded on the path behind us. A small body slammed into my legs without warning. I turned around and saw two young boys barely a decade old; one was sprawled on the ground while the other stood next to him.

"Sorry, Missus," a ragged young boy squeaked from behind me. "My lil' brother's right clumsy at times. We'll be outta your hair soon enough." He turned to his equally ragged brother and yelled, "Come on, Oliver, you ninny, up with you!" Oliver stood up, gave me a toothy grin, and began to run away.

"Oi!" A shout rented the air. The young ragamuffins froze mid-step and timidly turned around to face Holmes.

"'Oi?'" I repeated in disbelief. The colloquial nature of his shout combined with the crisp suit he wore was an extremely jarring mixture.

Holmes replied with a shrug. "Well, it certainly got their attention." He beckoned the lads over to him. "Young men, could you please come forward? I believe you have something that belongs to my friend."

My brow furrowed at his last statement. "They did what?"

"If you please, young sirs." Holmes beckoned once more. Whether it was the firmness in his voice or the menacing look in his eyes, I could not tell, but the young rascals inched forward with guilt written all over their cute faces. "Now, what are your names?"

The eldest brother spoke once again in a much gloomier voice than before. It was a voice that I was familiar with; the guilty voice one speaks in when one has been caught red-handed. "This is my lil' brother, Oliver. I'm Billy."

"Well, young Billy," Holmes began. "I would very much appreciate it if you return what you both stole from Miss Andrewes."

"Steal?" Oliver asked in a would-be innocent tone. "We didn't steal nothing!"

Billy harshly elbowed his brother in the stomach. "Belt up, Ollie; the bloke's onto us already. Just give it back."

"Oh, all right," Oliver whined and pulled out a familiar silver chain. He dropped it into Holmes' outstretched hand.

"My bracelet!" I cried as Holmes fastened the chain back on my wrist. Oliver and Billy guiltily looked at their feet. Holmes went on his knees and placed a hand on the lads' shoulders.

"Boys, I thank you for your honesty and I'm sure that Miss Andrewes appreciates it as well." He then fished out some shillings from his coat pocket. The brothers' eyes practically popped out of their heads as Holmes deposited two shillings each into the young boys' palms.

"Wow, sir! Thanks a lot!" Billy exclaimed in childish glee. Oliver stood awestruck at the gleaming shiny in his hands; he constantly turned it over and over as though he could not believe his luck. Their celebrations were abruptly stopped by another presence.

A constable joined the scene. His beady eyes suspiciously moved from Billy to Oliver. "Are these young lads bothering you?"

"We weren't doin' anythin', Constable Jones. Honest!" Oliver wheedled in a shrill tone.

"Yeah, sir, nothin' happened!" Billy asserted. The boys' voices mixed together as they repeated their pleas of innocence.

Constable Jones gruffly barked, "Quiet, you lot! I was not talking to you troublemakers." Holmes stood up from his crouched position but still kept the boys close to him. The constable tipped his hat towards me in a patronizing manner and then focused his attentions on Holmes. "Now, sir, were these mischievous rogues causing trouble for you and your wife?"

My face burned and turned a deep shade of crimson. "Sir, actually I—"

"No," Holmes cleanly interrupted. "The children were not bothering us. Were they, darling?" Holmes firmly stomped on my foot and whispered, "Play along."

I quickly answered, "No, sweetheart, they were not bothering us." I tucked my arm into Holmes' for believability's sake. I added, "They're darling little children, as a matter of fact." It was lucky that Constable Jones was not looking in my direction; if he were, he would have seen me staring daggers at my _husband_.

Constable Jones harrumphed in disbelief. "Well, sir, these children are known to cause trouble, picking pockets and what-not. If these lads aren't bothering you, I'd be willing to escort them home."

"Yes, Constable, I suppose that will be most sufficient," Holmes agreed. He gently pushed the lads towards Constable Jones. Of course, the boys were reluctant. "Take care of them and treat them well."

"Of course," Constable Jones replied out of habit. He placed his large hands on the boys' shoulders in an almost convincing manner.

Billy and Oliver looked at Holmes with pleading eyes that seemed to say, _Save me!_ Holmes gave them the smallest of winks as reassurance. He tipped his hat at the Constable. "Good evening, lads, Constable."

"Thank you for your cooperation, sir," Constable Jones said with a civil smile and gently took the boys down the path. I was about to admonish him for his claim that we were married when I was silenced.

"Hush," he whispered and then I heard what Holmes wanted to hear.

"I swear, you lot, next time I see your skin in this territory again, I'll have your hides."

"Ouch, Constable! You're gonna yank my ears off!"

"Mine too!"

"Quiet down, the pair of you, lest you want me to bash your heads in!"

Holmes shook his head in dismay. "Those boys…"

I inspected my bracelet in the fading light. "They have some really quick fingers."

"Yes, they do," Holmes agreed. He sighed and looked once more in the direction that the boys had left. "However, it is a rather predictable technique. I pity those boys. They always start out small, pick-pocketing and other petty crimes, and they'll slowly progress to more malicious crimes. Their lifetime will be spent evading Scotland Yard and braving the streets of this great cesspool."

"It cannot be helped," I gently argued. "They want to survive and if that means they have to resort to crimes such as stealing, then so be it. Desperation is a great motivator."

"It is unfortunate, I agree. Men such as Constable Jones are of no help either. Honestly, Scotland Yard needs better men than that buffoon, Jones, patrolling these streets." He sniffed in disgust and then said to himself, "I wish there was something I could do." Holmes' eyes were far off in thought as he said this; he soon came back to his senses with a bland smile upon his face. He tapped my shoulder distractedly and then said, "It is getting dark. Mrs. Costello may send the hounds after us if we do not return soon."

We walked further down the path in silence and dodged several ill-tempered geese on our way. I had just shooed away a particularly stubborn goose with my walking stick when a niggling question entered my mind.

"Holmes, why did you say I was your wife?"

"Pragmatism, Charlotte," he crisply answered. "It would be much easier to say that we were married instead of explaining that we were both single and why we do not have a chaperone. By the way, I applaud your quick wit for managing to improvise so quickly."

"Thank you."

"You are quite welcome."

A faint steam whistle drifted in the air. "The 5:44 at Charing Cross, I presume. Will you be leaving on the first train?"

"I…"

I bit my lip as I pondered this dilemma. This morning I had wanted to leave more than anything. But now… now, I did not want to. This man infuriated me like no other could with his haughtiness, sardonic wit, and almost mechanic tendencies. Yes, we often clashed; there were times when I wanted to kill him and I am more than positive that there were times when he wanted to wring my neck. Yet, I could not leave. Leaving meant that I would give up on my father and I certainly could not do that. The partnership between Holmes and I would be over the moment I boarded that train for Oxford. No, that would not do at all; I needed Holmes' intellect to aid me.

This morning, Holmes had insulted and verbally wounded me. By the day's end, he had pretended to be my husband. My mind reeled; predictability would be the last word to describe this unconventional relationship. In the end, I decided to follow Holmes' own edict of pragmatism. I let go of his arm and walked a few paces ahead.

"Are you really sorry about what occurred this morning?"

"I am."

"Did you really mean what you said… you needing me and all that?"

"I did."

"Really?"

"I do not take such declarations lightly."

I nervously rubbed my left arm. Holmes turned his gaze towards the lake. I walked back to him. "I would like to let you know that the issue of your cocaine habit is not over."

A regretful look appeared on his face. "I thought so."

I sighed in a resigned fashion and then instructed, "Tell me what you found out at the Hepburn residence."

He grinned.


	16. Cigar Ash and Keys Among Other Things

A warm wave of happiness swept over me when I saw that grin break on Holmes' face. We said goodbye to St. James's Park and began our return to Mycroft's flat. Holmes then set about telling me, in a most feverish and excited manner, what he had seen at the Hepburn residence. I intently listened to his findings at first, but then slowly found myself becoming more and more bored. He had just begun to talk about tobacco ash and the various differences among its brands when he saw the slightly glazed look in my eyes.

"You have not heard a single word I said, have you?" he asked, clearly perturbed by my apathy.

"Hmm? Oh, I'm sorry, Holmes." I had become distracted by the sight of a rather handsome, young gentleman; I could not help but notice his easy smile and bright eyes glowing with a mischievous intelligence behind a set of round spectacles. He reminded me of a particular student of my father's that I once fancied when I was younger. "I will honestly tell you that I heard the beginning of your findings but that I gradually lost interest. Has anyone ever told you that you have the tendency to ramble?"

"All I have said is pertinent information," Holmes argued. He shoved his hands into his pockets and proceeded forward in a faster pace; I almost had to run in order to catch up. "Meanwhile, here you are staring like some simpering fool at every young man that passes us by."

I stiffened; he had been watching me. I cleared my throat and gently reasoned, "I shall say in my defense that he was the only gentlemen that I had more than a fleeting interest in. You should be upset with him; he was the one with the nice smile that got me all flustered." I dryly added, "After all, us women cannot help but lose our heads around handsome young men."

"You only use your femininity when it is advantageous," Holmes muttered as he puffed his cigarette. "I need your full and undivided attention, Charlotte."

"Tut, tut, Holmes. One would think that you are getting quite jealous," I slyly remarked. Holmes looked positively apoplectic and was about to spew some words in his defense when I shoved my index finger in his face. "Now, now, Holmes! I merely jest. I do not think I can handle another argument for today… no, most definitely not. If you would kindly summarize your accounts and only emphasize the most important of your findings, I will be eternally grateful."

Holmes grumbled in response as he irritably threw his spent cigarette into the streets. He did not say anything more as we walked down St. James's Street and then turned onto Pall Mall. I patiently waited for his answer. He seemed to be deep within the attic of his mind; he was mentally rummaging through the various facts and stacking them up with the older data he had uncovered.

Ten minutes passed without a single word and I was about to throttle Holmes. However, he was unknowingly saved from my wrath; a throaty chuckle abruptly tumbled out of his mouth, which distracted and confused me. He glanced at me and noted the confusion written all over my face.

"Holmes, what the deuce—"

"Please do not interrupt my thought process, Charlotte. I am merely indulging in a personal joke." He interjected and then added, "I shall reveal my findings when I am ready." Five more minutes passed by and I was about to _firmly _prompt him about his findings once more when Holmes cleared his throat and finally relented. "Very well, I shall tell you as _succinctly _as I possibly can about my findings.

"My travels first brought me to Whitehall, the nucleus of our nation's government, where I sought out the offices of Scotland Yard. Mycroft referred me to a rather elderly inspector; he seemed to be on the verge of retirement and was, therefore, more likely to bend the rules. The elderly gentleman, Inspector Ainsworth, was quite willing to assist me even though his junior officer seemed much more reluctant. The sergeant grumbled about the fact that I was a private citizen and said that I had no business poking through police work.

"'My boy, Mr. Holmes, here, is only trying to help us out on this investigation.' Inspector Ainsworth told the young sergeant in a paternal yet condescending manner. 'If he's as good as his older brother is, I'm more than willing to let him take a peek.'

"'But, sir, it is clearly against the rules!' The young sergeant by the name of Lestrade complained and began thumbing through a well worn police manual. 'You see, it says here that—'

"'Rules, rules, rules!' The Inspector exclaimed in frustration. 'Come now, Giles, I am only thinking of the practicalities of the case. Maybe Scotland Yard could benefit from a pair of fresh eyes as his.'

"Ainsworth had the final word and left the young sergeant to mope for the entirety of the day; I, on the other hand, perused through the file. Much as I had suspected, Scotland Yard had ruled the crime an accident. The fire started around half-past-eleven at night and burned for two hours until the fire brigade extinguished it. Mr. Hepburn's remains were found in his bed; he may have been asleep when the fire started but I have insufficient data on that matter—"

I broke through Holmes' monologue. "Do you think you can spare me the description of Mr. Hepburn's... state after his death? I am not wont to hear the details concerning a gruesome death." We arrived in front of Mycroft's flat just as the streetlights were being lit.

"Very well." Holmes opened the door to Mycroft's building for me and we walked inside. We then climbed up the stairs to Mycroft's flat while Holmes revealed more about what he found.

The guilty cigar was discovered next to the remains of what would have been Mr. Hepburn's night stand. Holmes complained about the fact that the Yard had not said anything specific about the cigar.

"It is unfortunate that the Yard only said that it was a cigar. They did not take note of the cigar's brand or the type of tobacco the cigar was made of. Volumes of information could be derived from even the smallest amount of cigar ash."

_Again with the ramblings_, I mentally screamed. "A cigar is a cigar, Holmes; by any other name, it still smells horrible. I cannot see the significance of your concern with something as trivial as tobacco ash."

"It is extraordinarily pertinent information, Charlotte!" he exclaimed in a clearly offended tone. "In fact, I intend to write a monograph about the subject in the near future. Considering your ignorance on the topic, I shall reveal its importance later than I intended."

I scowled as we walked into Mycroft's flat. The elder Holmes was slumped in the chair by the fire; his eyes were drooping, but they widely opened when they saw Holmes and I walk through the door. He slowly sat up and stretched his club-like arms in the air. His eyes fell upon my face and a chuckle tumbled from his mouth.

"Miss Andrewes, I can see that you did not enjoy your outing with my brother. I'm afraid he's always had that effect on women."

"Very funny, Mycroft," Holmes sneered as he hung his coat on the rack. He straightened out his tie before turning to me with his outstretched arms. "Let me get your coat."

"No, you can get my walking stick," I commanded as I thrust the stick into his arms. I slipped out of my coat on my own accord and hung it on the coat rack.

"Your walking stick, Miss." Holmes placed it back into my hands. He walked over to the window and began to inspect the dark London skyline. I sat in the chair opposite of Mycroft. Holmes started to speak once more but did not turn around from his position. Instead, he looked at my reflection in the window. "Would you like to hear more or am I boring you?"

"You tend to bore me no matter what you do," I unenthusiastically noted. Fatigue seemed to sweep over me as I sank into the cushions. The feathery pillows in my room seemed to be calling for me to lay my head down on their softness.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Come now, children, let's not argue. Or would you rather have me say, 'Kiss and make up?'"

I merely acknowledged Mycroft's comment with a wry smile and focused on Holmes' reflection. "Come now, Holmes, do tell me, for I know how much you love to show-off and all."

Holmes rifled through his coat pockets in a feverish manner. "Damn it! It seems that I have diminished my supply of cigarettes. Mycroft, have you any?"

"I solely indulge in cigars nowadays, my dear brother," Mycroft said as he began to cut one. He held the lighter in his hands and was about to light it when his eyes fell upon me. "Oh, I'm sorry, Miss Andrewes, do you mind if I smoke?"

"Go ahead, Mr. Holmes. However, if you could perhaps tell your brother to open the window, I shall be very much obliged."

"What is the matter, Mycroft? Whitehall paying you too much to buy just cigarettes?" Holmes wryly questioned as he went to close the window; he knew that the seemingly innocuous inquiry would perturb his brother.

"Damn it, Sherlock, you cannot talk about my occupation in such a lax manner." He puffed his cigar and then seemed to realize that I was in his presence. "Oh, terribly sorry, Miss Andrewes—"

"No trouble at all. I shall just ignore that last comment," I said dismissively. "Come now, Holmes, do tell me the rest before I fall asleep in your brother's comfortable chair."

"Very well, I shall," he relented as he sat down on the window bench. "After I managed to absorb all of the information from Scotland Yard's files, I thanked Inspector Ainsworth and the young sergeant and set off for Kensington.

"The bones of Mr. Hepburn's residence were all that remained of his former home. All I managed to find through a brief perusal of the place was a small cigar butt on top of the brick wall surrounding the property. It seems that we were correct in thinking that Mr. Hepburn's home had a garden; anyone could climb over the back fence, into the garden, and towards his house with ease. I could not find anything more significant asides from that cigar butt and was about to leave when a man's voice called to me.

"'You there, young man!' I turned around and saw a middle-aged man come out from the house across the street. He was of the working class, as I judged from the Cockney lilt in his voice among other things. He was also a servant from one of the more opulent dwellings around the neighborhood; he wore a considerably formal chauffeur's uniform made from the finest of fabrics. 'You from the Yard?'

"'Yes, I am.' I seized the opportunity. 'And you are?' I asked the man.

"The man tipped his cloth cap. 'The name's Mathis, sir. I work across the way from the late Mr. Hepburn's place.'

"'Did you know Mr. Hepburn personally?' I asked.

"'Nice enough fellow. He was a quiet sort of chap with his nose always stuck in a book. Pity that he's gone,' he commiserated out of politeness.

"'Yes, well, before the fire, did you seen anything unusual? Perhaps anyone outside his house that looked unfamiliar?' I asked Mathis. The man looked up to the heavens in thought as he scratched his head. Mathis continued this exercise for quite some time until he finally had an answer.

"'No, sir, I didn't see anything of the like,' Mathis declared. 'Sorry that I can't tell you anything more.'

"'Mr. Mathis, do you happen to know where Mr. Hepburn's former help went after their master's death?' I inquired, deciding to take another route of questioning.

"'Yes. From what I know, Mr. Hepburn's butler, Pennyworth, returned to Ireland for retirement. I'm not too sure of what happened to his cook,' _Damn, there went one possible trail_, I thought to myself. 'But, Mr. Hepburn's housekeeper, Gertrude, lives with her daughter's family here in London.'

A laugh gurgled in my throat. "Ah-ha!" I cried out in order to keep myself awake. Mycroft's chair was much too comfortable for my own good. "So, is it safe to assume that you dashed to the other side of London and found something of importance concerning this Gertrude character?"

Holmes glowered at me for a moment and groused, "Damn, I need a cigarette."

"Have one of my cigars then, Sherlock," Mycroft replied as he opened up his cigar box.

I stifled a yawn. Holmes resignedly took a cigar out of Mycroft's box and proceeded to clip and smoke it. Luckily for me, the open window managed to diffuse the pungent smell.

"Actually," Holmes said, the cigar smoke obscuring his face from my vision. "I went to see her and I was not allowed inside. Her daughter was very stern about that manner; she seemed particularly overprotective of her mother." He took another puff of the cigar and said to Mycroft, "The tobacco is of an excellent quality." Holmes licked his lips and sighed, "We have to find some way to talk with Gertrude. That woman must know something."

"You should bring Miss Andrewes along to Gertrude's house tomorrow." Mycroft suggested. "I'm sure that the daughter would be much more willing to cooperate with another woman there."

"Yes, bring in the woman," I dryly joked. "The secret weapon."

A smile appeared on Holmes' face. "Yes, my secret weapon."

Another yawn snuck up before I could stifle it. "Well, gentlemen, I'm emotionally and physically exhausted. I think it's time that I go to bed." I stood up and the two gentlemen did as well out of politeness; I hated these kinds of actions as they always made me feel so damned conscious. I began to walk away when Holmes' voice drew me back.

"Oh, Charlotte, don't you want to know about the cigar?"

"What about it? Honestly, Holmes, I feel like I'm going to drop any minute," I petulantly replied; I did not even care about the whine in my voice. I just wanted to go to bed.

"I asked Mathis if Hepburn smoked cigars," Holmes began to say. Of course, Holmes being the way he is, decided to make this into some sort of dramatic scene. I was about to bellow at him when he finally spoke up. "Mathis said that Hepburn was an almost religious pipe smoker."

"So, it wasn't an accident," I lamely added.

"Yes."

"Is that all?"

"For the time being, yes."

"Well, then, goodnight, Brothers Holmes," I said as I walked down the hallway and into the welcoming shelter of my room.

* * *

I woke up to the slamming of the door and that annoyingly bright voice whispering in my ears. 

"Charlotte, wake up!"

My response was to cringe and to pull the covers over my head. I mumbled something unintelligible about how it was still very early. Unfortunately, pulling the covers over my head was not a final solution and I soon felt the coldness of having the covers tugged away from the bed.

"I know it's early, but I need you up right now."

My drowsiness was soon replaced by utter terror; Holmes was in my room and I was in nothing but my nightgown. I sat up at once and attempted to gather the covers around me.

"Damn it, Holmes! I'm in my nightgown!" I cried out just as he opened up the curtains. Sunlight poured into my room and pierced my sleep-dazed eyes. I covered my eyes with my pillow. "Firecrackers!"

"Of course you're in your nightgown," Holmes lightly noted. He placed something on the night stand with a _clink_. The smell of coffee wafted into my nostrils. "I could hardly imagine you to wear anything else to bed. Now, get up!"

I blindly fumbled for the coffee cup. My hands soon grasped the warm, smooth cup of china. "You're being much more pleasant than normal, bringing me coffee and all. What's on your mind, Holmes?"

"We are going to see the housekeeper, Gertrude, and I would very much like your presence there," Holmes said in that same polite tone, though now there was a hint of annoyance in his voice. "Drink all of that coffee and get dressed." It appeared that I was still moving at a glacial pace when Holmes loudly clapped his hands; I jumped and nearly upset the coffee cup. "Move, woman!"

I drank the rest of my coffee, proceeded with my daily ritual of massaging my limbs, and then got dressed. I fumbled around the room for my walking stick, nearly tripped over it in the process, and finally emerged from my room. I was still in a fog when I found Holmes opening a new package of cigarettes. "Finally got your cigarettes, did you?"

"Ah, finally awake, are you?" Holmes quipped in return. "I went to the tobacconist earlier and replenished my supply. I also asked the man if he could identify the brand of our lovely little cigar butt. He told me to return later in the afternoon."

"My, my, aren't we the productive one this morning? Woke up at the crack of dawn, did you?" I tiredly asked as I tried to stifle a huge yawn. Mrs. Costello entered the dining room and placed a tray filled with muffins on the table. I silently greeted Mrs. Costello with a wave. She gently smiled, took my cup into her capable hands, retreated into the kitchen, and returned with a full cup of coffee. "Oh, bless you, Mrs. Costello." I thanked her. A copy of _The Times_ seemed to stand on its own accord by the dining table. "Good morning, Mr. Holmes."

"Morning, Miss Andrewes," Mycroft greeted, briefly peeking out from his newspaper.

"No, actually I left around nine o' clock to fetch it." Holmes belatedly replied in a bland voice.

I was halfway through the process of bringing the cup to my lips when I abruptly stopped. "What time is it?"

"Half-past-eleven," Mrs. Costello provided in a chipper voice.

"Oh," I managed to say through my apparent embarrassment. Though I did not have a mirror, I was quite sure that my visage was as crimson as my hair. I whirled around to find Holmes quaking in silent laughter. "Oh, go ahead and laugh, Holmes. Surely if there is any moment that I deserve it, now is the time."

"Oh no," Holmes politely refused, though it was quite clear that he wanted to laugh. "That would be quite rude of me to do so… though you did open yourself up to it." He held fast to his word and did not laugh at me, but his mouth was quirked in a crooked smile whenever he managed to lock eyes with me.

I finished my second cup of coffee and found myself fully awake; the coffee, my sheer inanity, and Holmes' silent laughter at said inanity had done its job. "Well, now that I'm wide awake and you're finished laughing at me—" Holmes was about to dispute my claim and I hastily readjusted my argument. "---clandestinely laughing at me, at any rate, could we now go investigate whatever you woke me up for?"

Holmes cleared his throat. "My dear lady, I told you already my purpose, though I suppose that your sleep-drunken state made you disregard it. We are following my brother's advice. I am taking you along with me to visit Mr. Hepburn's housekeeper, Gertrude; you are to soothe the anxious and overprotective daughter while I ask the good housekeeper some questions." He led me towards the door and helped me pull on my coat. Holmes looked at me as he opened the door. "Are you ready? Good. Well, dear Mycroft, do not expect us until the evening. Goodbye!"

He closed the door behind us and proceeded down the stairs at a breakneck speed. I, of course, hobbled after him as quickly as I could. I reached the bottom and walked out onto the street to find Holmes standing by a waiting hansom. I managed to exclaim, though I was quite out of breath, "Firecrackers, Holmes! Whatever happened to 'ladies first'?"

"Well, then, if that were the case, it would be evening before we could go anywhere," Holmes said dismissively. He opened the door for me and, when he saw that I was hesitant, sighed and added, "I apologize; that was rather rude of me."

"You're bloody right it was," I griped as I put my hand in Holmes' and allowed him to help me into the hansom. I sat down and Holmes followed from behind. I shook my head and chortled to myself. Holmes looked at me oddly and I decided to explain myself. "What a team we make, eh, Holmes? A cripple and a drug addict off to save the world."

"Is that cynicism I hear in your voice? It certainly does not become a lovely young lady such as yourself." Holmes mused aloud. He then abruptly began to lecture me. "No, indeed. Charlotte, I shall tell you this once, but would like you to remember what I am about to tell you: I understand, and you must understand as well, that your body is not physically strong." With those words, he took my walking stick into his two hands and laid it there in his palms; his eyes surveyed it with what appeared to be either a fond or thoughtful gaze. He leaned the walking stick against the closed door when he was done. "However, your raw intellect—and believe me, it is quite raw—more than makes up for your bodily shortcomings."

"'Raw intellect?'" I repeated out of curiosity.

"Yes, raw," he repeated and proceeded to say, "You have a solid foundation and good eyes, but your mind could improve greatly given the chance. However, you tend to react through emotion rather than logic."

"You know, Holmes, you could almost be nice if your compliments weren't so backhanded," I slyly remarked. I saw that his tie was crooked and proceeded to fix it. He initially recoiled when my hands accidentally brushed his neck. "I am only trying to fix your tie, dear Holmes. I am not planning to choke you _this_ time."

"'This time,' eh?" he repeated. I finished straightening his tie and sat back in my seat. "I do hope you take my words to heart."

"For once, Holmes, I believe I will take your advice."

"Oi!" A coarse voice bellowed a voice above us. A cloth-capped, smelly, unshaven head of a cabbie peeked over into one of the windows. "This ain't a parlor, guvner. Are you lot headin' anywhere at all?"

"Baker Street, if you please. A sovereign if you can get there in half an hour and an extra sovereign for your troubles." Holmes directed the cabbie. "Oh, and Charlotte, I am so much more than a crazed drug addict."

"Oh, I know, but I do like simplicities," I genially smiled as I comfortably leaned back in the seat.

The cabbie excited by the sudden windfall of money whipped the horses a little too enthusiastically and we sped off towards Baker Street.

* * *

The cabbie got his two sovereigns; we got to Baker Street in twenty-five minutes time. The shiny sovereigns were deposited into the greedy little cabbie's hands and we stepped off of the hansom. My hair had not faired well during our hasty voyage; I reinserted several pins and then turned to find that Holmes had completely disappeared.

"Holmes!" I yelled into the crowd. _Damn him, he hadn't even the nerve to wait for me, _I blackly thought as I combed my way through the crowd and stood on the tips of my toes to see if I could see him. I dodged several street vendors and unkempt children; my hands quickly buried themselves into the safe shelters of my coat pockets. Heaven forbid that my jewelry be snatched by swift and grubby little hands. Holmes ditched me and I was fuming. It was at that very moment that I felt a hand snatch my arm.

"Damn it, woman, please keep up!" Holmes curtly whispered in my ear. He proceeded to steer me through Baker Street with one hand on my arm and the other on the small of my back. He let go when we stopped in front of an unassuming brick building with the number ninety-three painted above the doorway.

Holmes began to walk up the steps towards the door and I made to follow him when he abruptly whirled around to face me. I recoiled in shock and would have nearly fallen off the steps if he had not steadied me. "I shall make our intentions known first and then I shall summon you."

My brow furrowed in consternation. "Holmes, that woman already turned you away yesterday. Don't you think that she'll do the same today? And what will you tell her?"

"I shall simply tell her that you are a distant relative of the late Mr. Hepburn and that you would like to know more about your deceased uncle," Holmes explained in a manner similar to one used when talking to a stupid child. He jumped up the steps and knocked on the door. "Just wait and we will soon be inside the house."

My mouth opened to argue but I quickly decided to let him work on his own; I wanted the pleasure of seeing his arrogance get the better of him. I walked down the steps and stood underneath a nearby streetlight. Holmes knocked on the door once again. The door opened; my first impression of the woman was of a pig wearing a messy brown wig. Her piggy eyes fell on Holmes.

"I already shooed you away from here yesterday! I told you 'absolutely not!'" She screeched as she attempted to close the door; Holmes had strategically placed his foot in between the door jamb.

"Madam, please, if you would let us have a moment." He waved his hand in my general direction. "This woman here, she is—" Holmes implored in a strained voice before he was interrupted.

"My mother has already answered several questions for Scotland Yard. And you don't seem like those blokes, so why should she even answer_ your_ questions?" She brought her large foot down on Holmes' foot with that final statement. Holmes cursed as he quickly withdrew it from the door. The door was now free and she slammed it shut.

Holmes morosely grumbled to himself as he gingerly walked down the steps. It was now my turn to silently quake with laughter. He leaned on the other side of the streetlight and waited for me to finish. "She did not even listen to me."

"Yes, she will listen to a logical and reasonable argument." I sardonically reiterated his words with wicked satisfaction.

"Dear me, it seems that I forgot the one cardinal rule about women: They are incapable of comprehending logic and reasoning," Holmes savagely retorted. "Do you think I would have had a better chance reciting poetry?"

"Holmes, Holmes, Holmes!" I shook my head in dismay. "I am quite tempted to tell you, 'I told you so', but I think I will decline for your ego's sake. Mind if I try?"

A doubtful expression briefly crossed his features, but he said, "Well, certainly."

"Don't sound so doubtful of my abilities," I chided. "Who would be best suited to speak with a hysterical woman?" Holmes allowed himself to chuckle. "And you told me yourself that I was the 'secret weapon.' Oh, what is that swine—I mean—woman's name?"

"Mrs. Cadwallader," he supplied as he politely refused to buy flowers from a street vendor. "Welsh by the sound of the last name." He trivially added, "Very much like your own surname."

I nodded and proceeded to climb up the steps. I glanced at Holmes; a smirk was curled on his lips. I knocked on the door. The curtains in the window adjacent to the door fluttered slightly. It was followed by the door opening wide. Mrs. Cadwallader eyed me to a gentler degree than that of the suspicion she had fixed on Holmes.

"Yes?" she impatiently asked. She crossed her large arms over her heaving bosom and waited for an answer.

"Hello, Mrs. Cadwallader," I greeted in a soothing voice. "First of all, my name is Charlotte Andrewes. That man that you just spoke with is…" _Is what? My partner? No, no, that wouldn't do at all_. "He is my husband." A cough that sounded suspiciously like a laugh came from the pavement; I had trouble not rolling my eyes in response. "Well, you see, Madam, like my husband tried to say, I'm afraid that I insisted to come all the way to London to see Mr. Hepburn, my… uncle."

"Where are you from?" Mrs. Cadwallader promptly inquired.

I said the first thing that came to my mind. "Oh, well, we're from a small town in Sussex ."

"Countryside's great down there," she offered as the smallest of smiles appeared on her face.

"Yes, it's lovely this time of year," I agreed, surprised that I had managed to get this far. "Well, when we arrived in London, we discovered that Mr. Hepburn had passed away and we were greatly saddened by his death. I know that this is rather abrupt, but I just wanted to speak with your mother about my uncle for a moment; you know, talk about his final days and all." I added a sniffle for good measure. "It would mean a lot to me."

Mrs. Cadwallader retained her solemn pose for awhile and continued to look at me with that stern look in her beady eyes. I was afraid that she would shut the door in my face when her ruddy face broke in sympathy.

"Oh, you poor dear," she cooed as she unexpectedly seized me into her arms and thrust me into her bosoms. She patted my back as though she were comforting a child. "You come inside and I'll make some tea for you and your husband. Mother! We have guests! Make some tea!" She waddled inside of her house as her booming voice echoed through the rooms.

Holmes tramped up the steps and followed me inside. A dubious expression appeared on his face as though he could not believe what had just occurred. "I cannot understand. I was going to tell her essentially the same story and yet she turned me away."

Mrs. Cadwallader poked her head out of what appeared to be the kitchen door. "Make yourselves at home in the parlor," she said in a sickly sweet voice that abruptly switched to a hoarse yell as she returned inside the kitchen. "Mum! Hurry up!"

We sat down in an ancient, unused parlor. The aged sofa we occupied puffed up dust every time we moved. Holmes quietly laughed to himself. "That ridiculous story actually worked?"

"I appealed to her emotions, Holmes," I whispered and then added in a sardonic tone, "As we said, women are hardly logical."

He smiled and tightly pressed his index finger against his mouth in thought; he said nothing more until Mrs. Cadwallader trumped into the parlor with her mother, Gertrude.

* * *

The tea was lukewarm, the muffins stale, and the conversation tedious. The elderly woman looked as though she was in her late sixties. Her thin, white hair was tied into a messy bun on the top of her head and her face was deeply wrinkled. She peered at us with her yellowed eyes behind a pair of pince-nez. Gertrude Campbell revealed nothing criminal in her narration of Mr. Hepburn's daily routine and other extraneous details. I glanced at Holmes from time to time; at first he sat rigidly in attention, but as time passed and nothing of significance was heard, he slid lower and lower into his seat and seemed to gradually lose interest. Though bored, he still intently listened to the woman's every word since his eyes were still open and his hands were folded upon his chest; yet, nothing seemed to strike him.

The old woman's ramblings were not our only problem. Mrs. Cadwallader decided to stay in the room with us and, thus, we did not want to rouse her suspicions. It seemed that Scotland Yard's inquiries had caused her to be overprotective towards her mother.

I politely swallowed the last of the tea. "Mrs. Campbell, were you present when the fire happened?"

"No, you see, Master Hepburn sent all the servants home early that night." She replied and a curious expression passed over her face. "It was odd, really. He did not like to be alone in the house and would always have at least one of us stay with him for the night. Pennyworth, the butler, was usually the one that would stay with Master Hepburn."

"Pennyworth has retired to Ireland, am I correct?" Holmes asked as he folded his arms over his chest. "What of the cook, Mrs. Campbell? Do you have an idea as to where he went?"

Gertrude peered at the ceiling in thought and then answered, "I'm not quite sure where the cook went."

"What about where the cook lived?" Holmes prompted, his eyes half open; he looked as though he were about to fall asleep. The maid shook her head.

"Mrs. Campbell, could you describe my dear uncle's last day?" I asked as Mrs. Cadwallader passed me a tray filled with muffins. I certainly did not want anymore of those stale pastries, but I took one out of courtesy. I turned to Holmes, "Muffin, dearest?"

"Yes, don't mind if I do," Holmes assented and took a muffin. Mrs. Cadwallader's kind eyes quickly switched to coldness when her eyes met his. Holmes seemed nonplussed by the lady's unwarranted coldness. He placed the muffin on his plate but did not eat it.

Gertrude began to recount the day's events. "Well, the day started out regularly enough. He woke up, took a bath, and ate breakfast in his study. He then spent the rest of the day inside of that room; he caught up with his post and his readings."

"Did he have any visitors that day?" I asked.

"No, no visitors that day," she answered as she shook her head.

"Was there anything strange about that particular day?"

"No," she began to say but then quickly changed her mind. "Actually, he received a telegram that day that seemed to disturb him."

Holmes abruptly sat up in his seat. "Tell me, Mrs. Campbell, do you have any idea what that telegram said or who it was from?"

The old woman fervently shook her head. She proudly stated, "No, I'm no snoop, sir."

Holmes sighed and rolled his eyes. He contemptuously inquired, "Pray tell, how Mr. Hepburn reacted towards this disturbing telegram?"

"Well, after he finished reading it, his eyes seemed to bulge in either surprise or fright."

"Which one was it, Mrs. Campbell? Fright or surprise?" Holmes curtly questioned.

Mrs. Cadwallader turned her sharp tongue on Holmes. "Sir, you are not allowed to speak to my mother in that manner and if you do so again, I shall have no choice but to force you and your wife to leave."

"Dreadfully sorry, Mrs. Cadwallader." Holmes apologized, cleared his throat, and said in an overly gracious tone, "Mrs. Campbell, I would like your answer."

"Well, I believe it was fright, sir," Gertrude lamely stated after some thought.

I felt that there was nothing else that could be gained. I turned to look at Holmes; he met my eyes and nodded. _Yes, we were indeed done_. We both stood up. "Mrs. Cadwallader, Mrs. Campbell, I thank you for your time, but we have a previous engagement to attend."

"Oh, of course," Mrs. Cadwallader said as she stood up. "If there's anything I can do for you…"

"Yes, I shall call on you while I'm here in town," I finished for her. She vigorously shook my hand. Holmes extended his hand towards Mrs. Cadwallader but the only action the woman did was glower at Holmes. Holmes took the hint and left me with the two women to get our coats. "Thank you once again, Madam."

"It is no trouble at all, Mrs. Andrewes," Mrs. Cadwallader said as she took a sip of tea.

Mrs. Campbell's wizened face changed from apathy to shock. The old woman's visage resembled a fish out of water gasping for air. Her eyes locked onto me as though I was a lighthouse and she was a ship lost in a stormy sea. Holmes came back into the room before I could talk to the elderly woman. He helped me into my coat and was about to put his on when I grabbed his arm.

"Let me help you with your jacket, dear," I took the jacket from his hands. A questioning look appeared in his eyes. I winked in response and he understood. I held out the jacket and he slipped his thin arms into the sleeves. My hands smoothed out the fabric by his shoulders and spoke softly. "It appears that Mrs. Campbell may know something."

Holmes' eyes slowly moved towards Mrs. Campbell. "Yes, so it seems."

I came around and straightened his lapel; Holmes was looking down at me as I did so. "We need to question her… on her own, mind you."

"Yes, she looks as though she would like to talk to us further," he agreed. "Leave your bracelet on the console table. It may get her attention."

I started to remove my bracelet as Holmes approached Mrs. Campbell. He took the aged woman's hand and said, "My dear woman, I thank you for the services you have rendered for my wife's uncle." Holmes bowed his head and in a low voice, only audible to Mrs. Campbell, he added, "My wife will forget her bracelet here. After we have left, tell your overbearing daughter that you need to return it to her."

Mrs. Campbell nodded her head in understanding. Holmes smiled at Mrs. Cadwallader and said in civil tone, "Thank you, Mrs. Cadwallader, for inviting me in."

"Thank your wife for that," she flatly replied. Holmes joined me in the hallway and with a final wave, we took our leave.

We climbed down the stairs and began to walk down Baker Street . I wanted to stop after about ten steps but Holmes continued to walk through the crowd. We stopped in front of shop window as if to look at the display when I saw Mrs. Campbell making our way towards us.

"It took awhile to shake her off." She put her hand in her apron pocket and pulled out my bracelet. She observed it briefly in her wrinkled hand before returning it to my hand. "It's a very beautiful bracelet, Missus."

"Thank you; it was a gift from my father," I gratefully replied as I attempted to put the bracelet on again. Holmes took the bracelet from my hands and replaced it on my wrist. I briefly thanked him and turned back to Mrs. Campbell. "I could not help but notice your reaction towards my given name."

"I have heard that name before. A gentleman by that name came to visit some time ago. If I may ask, are you related to him?"

"I am."

"You are his daughter, then?" she questioned; she leaned her head to the right to better inspect me. "Oh, yes you are. Your father had the same kind of eyes." I noticed that Mrs. Campbell seemed much more relaxed when her daughter was not present. "Yes, I remember your father from when he visited Master Hepburn in January. I recall most of that visit since Master Hepburn does not… oh, did not have many visitors.

"Now, I do not have much time since my domineering, though well-intentioned, daughter may become suspicious, but I will tell you that your father and Master Hepburn spent a lot of time talking about wheels and manuscripts." Holmes and I simultaneously looked at each other in puzzlement. "Yes, I don't quite understand it either and I didn't want to eavesdrop or anything; I'm not that kind of person. Well, when your father was about to leave, I remember they had a brief exchange of words.

"'Thank you, Thaddeus, for doing this task on such short notice.' Your father replied. 'Did you take my advice concerning the—' He was interrupted by my master.

"'Yes, Professor Andrewes, I did,' Master Hepburn answered. And with those words, they shook hands and they left for the station together."

Holmes seemed inattentive during Mrs. Campbell's monologue; he was staring at the shop window and observing its wares. Appearances deceived me; Holmes spoke once more. "There is something else that you have not told us, Mrs. Campbell. A two month old visitor would hardly cause a violent reaction on your part."

Mrs. Campbell gravely nodded and cleared her throat. "Well, you see, one of the odd things that happened on Master Hepburn's last day involved your name, Missus. I was busy doing my daily chores when Master Hepburn called me to his study. He was bent over his books as usual when I came in.

"'Gertrude,' he called in his hoarse voice. 'Come closer and sit down in that chair in the corner for me, please.' He pulled out his pipe and began to light it. 'Now, Gertrude, this may seem to be an odd sort of request, but I trust you. You have given me many years of great service. I need you to keep this in your possession.' He then placed a key on his desk and pushed it towards me. I took the key as he explained. 'This key is to a safe at Barclay's. I want you to keep this until someone by the name of _Andrewes_ comes along,' he ordered and promptly dismissed me.

"Well, I followed Master Hepburn's orders though I did find it crazy. The next day, Mr. Hepburn died in that terrible fire, but I still kept the key on my person for his sake. Sure enough, he was right that you came along." And with that, she pulled out a key from her apron pocket. "I pass this to you, my dear."

She placed the small key in my palm. The key was small but it felt heavy. Holmes took it in his hand and held it to the light; the key looked like any ordinary key. The key returned to my hand and stuffed it into my pockets.

"We thank you, Mrs. Campbell." Holmes fervently shook her hands. I saw that he had regained that dancing gleam in his eyes. Mrs. Campbell smiled and began her return home. She had retreated into the crowds of Baker Street when Holmes abruptly ran after her. "Mrs. Campbell!"

Of course, I had to race after Holmes and bashed a couple of shoulders in the process of chasing him. I found them near Mrs. Campbell's home. He held out his hand to stop me from getting closer. He said farewell to Mrs. Campbell once again and then walked over to my side.

"What was that all about, Holmes?"

"I merely wanted to distinguish whether Mr. Hepburn gave her that task before or after the receipt of that telegram," he stated as he took a cigarette from his pocket. He held it up and I resignedly nodded. The pungent and familiar scent of tobacco filled the air.

"And?"

"It was after the receipt of that mysterious and disturbing telegram that he appointed her this task," Holmes answered as a large puff of smoke exuded from his mouth. He offered me his arm and I took it; there was a gleam in his eye that indicated that he was in an excellent mood.

"This is certainly getting very interesting," Holmes acknowledged in an amused tone.

I was about to agree with Holmes, but was stopped in the process; a young man in his early teens was sprinting after his friends when he bumped into my walking stick. I lost my balance and would have fallen over if I had not taken Holmes' arm. The boy turned around and saw that it belonged to me. He rushed over and picked the walking stick up.

"Sorry, Missus, I didn't mean to knock over your cane," the youth apologized as he gave it back to me. I took it back and politely thanked him. He nodded and then ran off. He loudly admonished after his friends, "You blokes! You almost made that crippled lady fall over!"

I watched his progress down the streets until he turned onto Paddington Street. I pulled a handkerchief from my pocket and used it to wipe off the dirt. My eyes moved toward Holmes; he did not look at me, but I knew he had listened to the previous exchange. He seemed to be waiting for a response on my part.

I sighed and said in an overly breezy tone, "Sticks and stones, eh?"

Holmes did not acknowledge my comment but abruptly proceeded onto another subject with vigor. " Charlotte, I managed to confirm a superfluous hypothesis of mine. Would you like to hear it?"

I merely shrugged my shoulders in response and leaned my head in Holmes' direction to listen better. He cleared his throat and began to speak. "I proposed that the _hospitable_ Mrs. Cadwallader," he started to laugh but attempted to stifle it; he clapped his hand to his mouth and held it there until his amusement subsided. "_Hospitable_ does not automatically come to mind when describing her attitude towards me, wouldn't you say?" I remembered the hostile behavior she had shown Holmes and nodded in agreement. "I surmised that Mrs. Cadwallader had recently separated from her husband."

I decided to indulge his ego for the moment. "Pray tell, Holmes, how ever did you deduce such a thing?"

"Firstly, her particular show of bitterness towards me demonstrated that she did not care for the company of men. However, that is not enough data to make such a conclusion. Did you see anything else that would have indicated such a state in domestic affairs?" I shook my head. "Tut, tut, one sees but fails to observe…"

Holmes further discussed his observations and had finished by the time we turned onto Marylebone Road. Suddenly, a thought cruised into my mind that caused me to smile. He bent his head towards me and asked, "Pray tell, what has put such a sphinx-like smile on your face?"

"Nothing that concerns you, dear Holmes, I can assure you of that," I answered in a simple tone. In his own arrogant way, he had successfully distracted me from the lad's comments. _I must find some way to thank him someday_, I noted to myself.

"Hmm, very well, I shall allow you your secrecy for the time being." He dropped his cigarette onto the pavement and stomped it out. "Now, I was about to suggest that we head over to Barclays to see exactly what that key opens. However," he paused and turned to me with a crooked smile. "I thought I heard your stomach growl when we were inside Mrs. Cadwallader's rooms despite the presence of nourishment."

The air around Baker Street was cool and yet my face was hot with embarrassment. I retorted, "I did not have a thing to eat for breakfast. You simply rushed me out the door. It should also be noted that her wares did little for my appetite."

"Hmm, I certainly do not want you to be dead on your feet." He belatedly realized the implications of his statement. He hastily cleared his throat and pushed on. "Come to think about it, I am rather famished myself. I shall suggest we indulge at Simpson's on the Strand. Do you find that suitable? Good, then that's settled." A hansom pulled up on the corner and we ran for it. Holmes quickly assisted me inside. I was waiting for him to follow, but he did not. He was perched at the side of the hansom with his hand held over his forehead. He looked as though he were searching for something.

"Holmes, what is it?" I asked out of curiosity. I made to stand and look, but he quickly pushed me back down. He sat back down after a moment and told the cabbie our destination. The hansom skillfully negotiated through the city streets under the vigilant whip and the colorful curses of our cabbie. We turned onto Gower Street when I asked Holmes what he had seen.

"Only a coincidence, my dear Charlotte. Nothing more," he waved his hand dismissively. He then added in a lower voice to himself, "However, I am not too fond of coincidences."

The lovely scents sailing from the kitchen doors caused my stomach to rumble loudly. My face flushed as Holmes' gaze fell upon me, though at this time his eyes twinkled with good humor instead of the usual disparaging look. We sat down in the large dining hall with the other members of the lunch crowd. The crystal chandeliers glittered above our heads and added to the elegant and sophisticated atmosphere. For the first time in awhile, Holmes and I managed to have a conversation that did not pertain to the odd circumstances that surrounded us. He spoke about his want for a Stradivarius, of his opinions on the current state of politics, and several musings about London, among other things. I, on the other hand, was content to listen to his animated conversation.

Holmes took a swig of wine and switched subjects. "As argumentative as you can be, Charlotte, you have a tremendous gift for silence; I can talk about many a subject and you can sit here quietly and merely listen."

"Thank you, Holmes," I said. "But, in due honesty, I hardly have anything to offer in a conversation with subjects that run the spectrum of cryptanalysis to the latest Gilbert and Sullivan comic opera."

He chuckled to himself and conceded, "Yes, I am afraid I have the tendency to bemuse many conversationalists with my sporadic and vast interests. However, I think that your silence is due rather to your curiosity than to any lack of participation." I allowed myself to smile and he took that as my approval. At that moment, the waiter came to our table and served a lovely treacle sponge pudding. Holmes nodded his thanks to the waiter before continuing the conversation.

"I have been wondering about your education ever since I met you. Your father was an Oxford professor; you probably memorized the names of the colleges before your maths tables and you would sleep in the Bodleian if they let you. I am quite sure that you could have eased your way through those entrance exams. Hence, my question is this: Why are you not in university?"

I held a finger up to indicate I needed a moment; my treacle-filled mouth prevented me from answering right away. I swallowed and was about to speak when Holmes brought something to my attention.

"You have cream all over your mouth." He motioned in the general direction of my mouth.

"It's not a good look for me, is it?" I joked as I wiped it off with the napkin. "Is it all gone? Honestly? Well, I am just making sure that you aren't trying to make me look like an idiot." I took a sip of wine and proceeded to answer his previous question. "I know I could have gone to university. I actually took the entrance exams when I was seventeen but failed that first time. I was going to take it the next year but then I… well, you know what happened. I missed that year's exams as well. Holmes, I have lived around the university's scholastic system my entire life and I know that system well.

"Lady Margaret Hall is the only institution available for women seeking an Oxford education. It is practically an infant compared to the Methuselah-like institutions of Christ Church , Balliol, and Oriel." My fingers circled the rim of the wine glass; the glass produced beautiful and ethereal crystal tones. I looked across the table at Holmes and he sat before me with his fingertips pressed together. "Perhaps Anne, James, and I were spoiled when we were children, but I remember my father had many tutors pass through our house to educate us. Tutors for music, Latin, Greek, French, chemistry, maths, literature… practically anything that could be learned, we learned it. When I was considering higher education, Holmes, I found something that left a considerably bitter taste in my mouth; I saw that women were encouraged to take certain subjects such as literature and music. The _tougher_ materials such as the sciences and the maths were to be left for the men.

"A large sum of money would be spent on my higher education. If I were to spend that much money on my education, I should be able to learn whatever I want. However, seeing as I would not be able to, why I should I even bother?"

"It should also be noted that most women attend a university to meet young men for marital reasons," Holmes observed as he took a bite of treacle pudding. "These fledgling women's universities are difficult to take seriously since, more often than not, the women themselves are not taking the experience seriously." I was about to rebuke him when Holmes preemptively conceded, "Of course, there are those select women who actually desire a good education and, for those women, I wholeheartedly and sincerely wish them the best of luck." Holmes gazed at me with a contemplative look tinged with regret. "After all, intelligent women are somewhat frowned upon in our present society."

I guzzled the last of my wine. I dreamily mused aloud. "Yes, I shall never be wed for that particular reason. Knowledge is a deplorable quality in a woman except if it is knowledge in the arts of cooking, cleaning, and childbearing."

Holmes leaned back in his seat and pressed his fingers together. "I certainly could not imagine you entering that cult of domesticity."

"Neither can I imagine you coming home to a wife and children," I replied before thinking. I belatedly recognized that my statement had been blunter than I realized.

Holmes looked at me through his half-closed eyelids for a long time before he answered. He stated in a barely audible voice, "That life is not mine to live."

A pressing question lingered on the tip of my tongue, yet I knew that I would never develop the courage to ask it. I decided that now would be the opportune time to change the subject. "Holmes, you are almost finished with your education at Christ Church. Pray tell, what are you planning to make of yourself? Are you going to join your brother and serve Whitehall ?"

"No, Mycroft's line of work is far too lethargic for my tastes. I would like to help people. That is rather vague though, is it not? I want to seek out justice and right wrongs…"

"Save the world, Holmes?" I jested.

"Cynicism does not become you, Charlotte," he admonished. "That last statement of yours is far too idyllic and idealistic for my palate."

"Why not join the _capable _fellows at Scotland Yard?"

"Ha!" He chuckled as he drank the last of his wine. He then pulled out his pocket-watch and inspected the time. "Hmm, well, we have been here much longer than I intended."

"What time is it?" I asked. My fork mopped up the last remnants of treacle pudding.

"We arrived at Simpson's around a quarter past noon. It is nearly three o' clock and the banks shall close at five," Holmes stated as he closed the cover of his watch with a _snap_. "I shall pay for the bill and we shall proceed to Barclays in haste. I am most anxious to see what is inside that safe. Ah, and we also must make a trip to the tobacconist's to see what he has found."

* * *

Cold air blew the moment we set foot outside Simpson's. I was buttoning up my coat when Holmes whispered in my ear, "Do not look, but there is someone following us."

Of course, the idiot that I am, my head instantly snapped upwards to look for this supposed stalker. My eyes scanned the opposite side of the Strand and suddenly I saw him. It was instantaneous; our eyes both locked on each other and a roaring filled my ears. I knew that face, for I had seen it last night. It was that bespectacled young man that had distracted me with his smile and the gleam of intelligence in his eyes. However, this time, a cold and calculating gaze filled his them. This look was soon replaced by panic; he realized that he had been spotted. He roughly shoved the gentlemen ahead of him and bolted down the street.

"Damn it, he's running!" Holmes roughly pushed me aside and sprinted off after him. I started to run after him but realized that there was no way that I could keep up with Holmes' long strides. After some time, Holmes returned without the man and in a black mood. He banged his fist on the streetlight in dismay and whirled around to face me. "Well, you do realize that we have lost him."

Regret gnawed on my insides as I felt Holmes' hot gaze fall upon me. "It's all my fault, Holmes, if I—"

"You are damn right that it is your fault!" he exclaimed. "My God, woman, that man could have provided us with plenty of answers, but now we will never know. Of all the idiocy, you deliberately disobeyed my orders and you just had to look up. You are damned lucky that we have that key and that cigar butt or else we would be lost altogether."

Holmes' tirade against my stupidity was expected and deserving. Nevertheless, it certainly did not stop me from feeling entitled to defend myself. My mouth, as usual, opened to rebuke but all the words I could muster were the beginnings of lame excuses. He fixed me with a smoldering gaze that stopped my prideful sputtering. Holmes did not say anything more, but everything about his person indicated that he was still extremely livid about the situation; his voice still had a vitriolic quality when he hailed a hansom. We boarded in complete silence and did not look at each other for the entire trip. The pivotal moment kept playing over and over in my head in brutal clarity as we traversed through the streets; oh, how I longed to turn back time and stop myself from committing such an indiscretion. My eyes accidentally roamed over to the seated figure in front of me; I knew that Holmes refused to look at me because something as little as a glance in my direction would ignite his temper once more. I also refused to look at him; for, not only did I act so dense, but I had ultimately let him down.


	17. Spinning Disks

**_I have created some pictures of some of my characters and certain scenes so if anyone is curious to see what Charlotte or any other character looks like, then head on over to my profile and click on the indicated link._**

**_By the by, Chapter 16 has been slightly edited--nothing too drastic but it would be wise to read once again just to make sure you're on the right tracks._**

**_Oh, and thanks for the reviews everyone and please continue to voice your love...or possible disliking...of this story. :D_**

* * *

After a half of an hour of battling our way through the London streets, we finally arrived in front of the banking institution, Barclays. Holmes leaped out of the hansom as soon as it stopped moving and ran inside the doors; it was almost as if my indiscretion had caused him to move at such a fast and furious pace. I was reminded of one of those circus acts in which the performer attempts to catch porcelain china and the like before he or she crashes onto the floor beneath him or her. I exhaustedly hobbled through the glass doors and found that Holmes had, for the third time today, disappeared before my very eyes. 

"Now, where did that oversized bird of prey run off to this time?" I mumbled to myself as my eyes surveyed the area before me.

The marble beneath my feet brightly gleamed due to the extravagant chandelier over my head and also, no doubt, to the hours of drudgery needed to maintain such grand floors. My knees ached just thinking of the time spent polishing it. A waving hand in the distance caught my attention and I saw Holmes sitting by one of the many desks where tellers sat patiently waiting for customers.

"Did you get lost?" Holmes chided in a barely audible voice as I took a seat next to him.

"I was, but then I saw your huge beak of a nose and all was well," I lowly quipped and extended my hand toward the teller seated in front of us. "How do you do, sir?"

The teller politely accepted my hand and gently shook it. "Very well, Madam, I thank you." He quickly polished his spectacles before speaking once more. "My name is Andrew Taylor. I was just speaking with your husband before your arrival." I repressed a sigh; it was getting rather annoying to hear myself referred to as Holmes' wife. "You have a certain key in your possession, I believe."

"Yes, I do," I answered and pulled the key from my pocket. I deposited it into the teller's open palm and he briefly examined it.

"Ah, I see," was all he said for a moment and then he waved his hand to one of his associates. "Reginald, this is Mr. Holmes and his wife and they would like to get the contents of Mr. Hepburn's safe."

The mustachioed Reginald turned his beady eyes toward Holmes. Of course, I was thoroughly ignored save for a glance in my general direction. "Ah, I see," he repeated his colleague's words, much to my chagrin. "The name is Mr. Samuel Reginald, sir. How do you do?" he asked as he vigorously shook Holmes' hand and thoroughly ignored me. "Exactly what is your relationship to Mr. Hepburn, Mr. Holmes?"

"My… wife, sir," Holmes tentatively began as he glanced at me. I gave him the smallest of shrugs and he continued, "Her uncle was Mr. Hepburn and he entrusted the key into her possession shortly before he died." He explained, "It would mean the world to her to have any sort of memento of her dear uncle."

I pulled my face into its most convincing mournful frown and pouted my lips for extra measure. Reginald simply nodded at this information as though it were some trivial tidbit in a piteous conversation. He then cleared his throat and declared, "My sympathies, Madam. I shall say, on behalf of everyone at Barclays, that our prayers are with your family during this tough time."

Holmes gently nudged me; I turned and saw a handkerchief in his hand. I took it from his hand and he gave me the smallest wink. My lips slightly curved up in a minute smile, but I quickly repressed it and began to sob. I buried my face into the handkerchief and started to sniffle. The two bankers looked at each other in discomfort at my show of emotion; Taylor shuffled uncomfortably in his seat while Reginald suddenly became fascinated by his shoes.

"Thank you for your kindness, gentlemen. My uncle was certainly correct in trusting you to handle his affairs," I said in a trembling voice that turned into a large sob. I surreptitiously gave Holmes a sidelong glance; his hands sat in his lap and they made a decisive slicing motion. _Stop drawing further attention to yourself_, those quick and slightly skeletal fingers seemed to say. I subsided from the dramatic and simply dabbed my eyes.

"Yes… well, Madam, Mr. Reginald will fetch the contents from your uncle's safe." Mr. Taylor succinctly stated as he drummed his fingers upon the desk. He politely smiled at us and then excused himself to attend to other customers.

Holmes immediately assaulted me upon Taylor's leave. "What the deuce was that?"

"What?" I dumbly asked as I threw his handkerchief back at him.

"That whole show of maudlin tears and exaggerated sobs!" he fumed. "Did anyone ever tell you that less is more?"

Holmes had torn me to his shreds once again. I retorted, "Holmes, I am no Sarah Bernhardt. I only did what I thought would get the desired effect."

He crossed his arms across his chest. "There are probably dozens of people who come into this bank daily due to deceased relations. The last thing we need is you calling attention to us when we are clearly being followed. I only wanted you to sufficiently distract those men so they would not ask too many questions. I certainly did not need you to cry your heart out." There was still a residual vehemence in his eyes over my blunder as he said this. He cleared his throat, shut his eyes as though staving off his ire, and muttered to himself, "Such a mawkish display."

I rolled my eyes and sighed. I curiously inquired after a few minutes of silence, "Was I really that terrible?"

He quickly considered the notion and then replied with a resounding, "Yes!"

I had the greatest temptation to swing my cane and hit a certain _gentleman,_ but luckily for Holmes, Reginald returned with a package in tow. I noticed that Holmes had sat up in his seat at the package's appearance. I, too, sat straighter in my seat so that I would be able to see what was in his hands.

"These are the contents of your uncle's safe." Reginald placed the package on the desk in front of us with a _thump_.

I had never laid my eyes on something that seemed so trivial and, yet, was so imperative. It was a file folder filled haphazardly with old and crumpled pages. I reached out to open it when Holmes' hand slammed it shut; I recoiled and nearly cried out in shock. Holmes looked as uninterested as I had ever seen him. He shook Reginald's hand and then took the package into his arms.

"Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Reginald," Holmes thanked him as he stood up.

"'Tis nothing at all, Mr. Holmes." Reginald vigorously shook Holmes' hand in return. He then turned to me and bowed. "Mrs. Holmes, once again, our institution has the deepest sympathies for you and your family."

My head nodded out of polite obligation. Holmes, who looked at least satisfied by my answer, tucked the papers under his elbow and we proceeded to walk outside the doors and back into the enveloping darkness of the city.

* * *

The flat tones of the Boston born man on Folly Bridge had told me that the papers were in London. Indeed, there were papers in London; the man was honest in that regard. However, Holmes and I were not expecting the haphazard, disheveled mess we received from Barclays. 

We briefly stopped at the tobacconist's shop. I chose to remain with the hansom instead of venturing inside with Holmes; the smell of tobacco was certainly a great determent. He emerged from the shop after a few minutes as he pocketed a small paper bag into his coat pocket. He bounded towards the hansom and we resumed our ride.

Much to my impatience, Holmes refused to show me the papers until we reached Mycroft's flat. I was further incensed by the seemingly exorbitant amount of time we spent trying to get back. What was initially supposed to be half an hour turned into an hour and a half circling London; Holmes wanted to make quite sure that we were not being followed. Once satisfied, we returned to Mycroft's flat just as Big Ben struck half past five.

Delicious aromas wafted in the air and sounds of silverware greeted our ears when we entered Mycroft's flat. Holmes swept out of his coat, walked into the dining room, and dropped the package onto the table with a large _thud_. I peeled off my coat and slowly tottered after Holmes.

"Mycroft, stop stuffing yourself!" Holmes ordered as he took a seat in the dining room. Mycroft looked mildly interested but unfazed at the new arrival and continued to mop up his food. Holmes sighed in exasperation and said, "I think we may have something that may interest you."

"Well then, my dear brother, show me what you have found," Mycroft blandly remarked as he tidily wiped his mouth with a napkin. The elder brother's eyes fell upon me and he promptly stood up from his seat to pull out mine. I nodded my thanks as I sat down; Holmes did not seem to care at all and proceeded to open the file.

"That's my father's handwriting," I mumbled as I glanced at the bundles of papers. I knew those familiarly messy scrawls as well as my own penmanship. Suddenly, Mycroft's dining room transformed into my father's study. I could see my father bent over his desk as he graded papers while I sat in my father's oversized armchair in the corner. He placed his pen down, sighed, and cracked his knuckles as he turned towards me with that familiarly benevolent smile.

"Yes, that is quite odd," Mycroft said. The vivid vision shattered around me and jerked me back into Mycroft Holmes' dining room.

I jumped in shock; the mirage-like vision in my eyes had seemed so realistic. A sudden tightness in my chest arose and I bit my lip to prevent my emotions from spilling out. My fingernails tightly ground into my palms and the salty taste of blood filled my mouth. _Damn, I had bit my lip too hard_, I silently chided myself. A hand on my shoulder clenched mine and a whimper managed to escape.

"I apologize, Holmes," I began as I turned towards him and mustered a smile. "I must be exhausted. After all, we did traverse London. It is nothing, I assure you. Please resume your inspection of the manuscripts."

He did not, however, and his eyes looked at me with their familiar surgical gaze; I felt them peel away layer after layer of my defenses. I found that I could no longer meet his gaze; I roughly shrugged his hand off my shoulder, folded my hands on the table, and turned to Mycroft.

"Pray tell, what is so odd about it?" I asked while I deliberately avoided Holmes' gaze.

Mycroft looked over the top of the manuscript. "Take a look and you shall see for yourself," he stated as he passed the first page of the manuscript to Holmes, who decided to keep it in his hands for further inspection. I grumbled in disdain as I tried to peek over at the paper; but he raised it in the air out of my sight. I leaned back in my chair and crossed my arms over my chest. Mycroft started to speak once more. "Your father is a rather interesting man, Miss Andrewes. His handwriting tells me that he was an emotional man, an intellectual, and yet he was not a great communicator and a rather reserved individual who seemed to trust a few people. What do you think, Sherlock?"

Holmes' chair scraped against the wooden floor and moved towards me; I could smell the scent of his aftershave. His fingers nimbly turned the paper over in his hands. He brought the page to his face and sniffed it; he clearly ignored the confused look I had acquired on my face. Finally, he inspected the page with his eyes. "The lower ends of the letter 'y' are straight, which seem to indicate that the writer was self-sufficient. Did you also take note of the way the letter 't' is written, Mycroft? We can also conclude that he has a quick mind but also a man of practicalities."

Mycroft and Holmes continued to volley their deductions and observations over my head. The entirety of the conversation carried an air of dispassionate coldness that caused me to wince. I loudly cleared my throat and interrupted them. "How is it that you can derive all these characteristics from _my father's _handwriting?"

"Graphology," Holmes provided as an answer. "I am sure you know enough Latin to derive its meaning."

"The study of writing… or handwriting, in this case. But, Holmes, from what little I have heard, graphology is not really considered a true science."

"Yes, however, the study does have its merits; it provides us with a unique insight into a person's character. Anyway, the oddity that my dear brother has pointed out is this." Holmes finally relinquished the paper to me and I examined the first written lines.

_**DyrrmalcjramstilwamakXskjmjgiekxtxjdywi  
**__**Mixmjrehsnexxkaavpexpalcfkimixtehrems  
**__**Jscgtcxvwwjyaocjeitathewnue**_

The rest of the page followed in a similarly intriguing fashion. I turned to the brothers Holmes with bewilderment written all over my face. The two men also had puzzlement upon their twin features as well. There was, too, an intense curiosity contorting their faces that I had seen numerous times in the past. Holmes turned to his brother; they both looked at each other for a long time in utter silence and then turned their full attentions to the document.

I was the one who had to break the brooding silence. "For God's sake, what does this all mean? Does it continue on like this through the rest of the papers?"

"Yes," the brothers dismissively answered in unison as they surveyed the other pages of the document.

"Well, then," I began to say in an overly patient voice. "How do you propose we discover what all of those papers mean?"

Holmes shook his head in frustration. "Too much," he muttered to himself. His piercing eyes fell upon me. "There are a variety of ways for something to be encrypted."

"Your father has left us with quite a pretty problem," Mycroft ruminated in a voice mixed with amusement and annoyance. "My brother is right; there are unlimited possibilities in the ways that he could have encoded this. Caesar boxes, the Atbash cipher, various polyalphabetical ciphers…"

"We may have a clue to what he used." Holmes interrupted his brother's list of several processes of cryptography. "Mrs. Campbell mentioned that your father and Thaddeus Hepburn were talking about manuscripts and wheels." His hand slammed on the dining table in excitement and his eyes danced. "Yes, everything fits together neatly." It seemed that his mind would not allow him to remain stationary; he practically leapt out of his seat and began to pace the length of the dining room. He muttered to himself, "Your father's favorite historical figure was Thomas Jefferson, if I am correct?"

"Yes," I hesitantly replied as my brow furrowed in confusion. "But what does that have to do with anything?"

"Everything!" he exclaimed. "Do you not see? Thomas Jefferson, the missing box, the papers, the wheel… they are all connected." His lithe form whirled around to face his brother, whose face was glowing with comprehension. I, on the other hand, remained in the dark and felt extraordinarily stupid. He pointed at Mycroft and said, "Yes, you see it too, Mycroft!" A cheerful voice greeted my ears as Holmes returned to his seat next to me. "Thomas Jefferson was a modern day Renaissance man. Scientist, architect, botanist, politician… and cryptologist." My thoughts began to snap into place. "To ensure the privacy of his letters from the prying eyes of his opponents, he created a device which is now called a Jefferson disk.

"The Jefferson disk uses twenty-six wooden wheels that were threaded onto a spindle. The edge of the wheels would have the letters etched in various random orders." He took a pause in his monologue and turned to Mycroft. "May I get a pen and paper to illustrate an example for Charlotte?" Mycroft called for Mrs. Costello to provide the supplies. A pen and a couple of sheets of paper emerged and Holmes began to draw an example of the wheel. "You see, the letters are written in a random fashion such as this:

N K Y N S A V O P Q X Z I U D N L

M K Y Q N B A I X C Y E M L C F O

B Z T D S G H L J Y X A P O U I J T

"Do you see it?" The tip of his pen ran down the seventeen columns. "This is on a much smaller scale, but it will suit our purposes. When one wanted to encode a message, one would turn the disks to form the message they so desire. For example, let us pretend that we have a wheel with us and that we are encoding a message. I shall use your name:

P I U Y R W M B Z C G K L T Q X N

C H A R L O T T E A N D R E W E S

K U C X Z Y I L M A W R E Q P M A

"We have figuratively spun the wheels to make your name. Now, in order to encrypt our message, we would look at any other rows of text. Here, since we only have two other rows to choose from, I shall choose the line of text on top of our message. Hence, your name encrypted on a Jefferson disk would be this:

P I U Y R W M B Z C G K L T Q X N

"That's quite complicated," I said as Holmes finished his little lecture. My mind seemed to slowly catch up with the feverish pace of the Holmes'. "The little ebony and ivory box on my father's desk… that was a Jefferson disk?" Holmes nodded in satisfaction. Yet, there was still one fact my mind could not wrap around. "Why did they need to steal that box? I am sure that something like that could be easily reproduced."

Mycroft shook his doughy head. "The letters are placed in a random fashion. Whoever wants to decrypt the message would need an exact copy of the disk your father used."

"And we need that disk as well," Holmes stated as he began to pull out his cigarette case. "I need to meditate upon our next course of action. If you do not care to smell the emissions of my nicotinic meditation, I suggest you leave now."

"Oh, Holmes, what about the cigar? Was there anything provocative about it?"

Disappointment marred the exuberant expression on his face. "It was a common and cheap brand of cigar. The only information I could acquire from it was that whoever has been following us is not paid enough to buy of the finer brands of tobacco." He flipped open his cigarette case and placed one between his lips. The snapping sound of a match being lit crackled in my ears. "Now," he stated as he lit the cigarette and extinguished the flame by shaking the match. "Perhaps you may take this opportunity to rest as I could see that you are leaning much more heavily on your walking stick than is usual." Smoke billowed from his open mouth and nostrils.

I left the brothers to their thoughts and went into my room. My eyes shut the moment my head landed on the feathery softness of the pillows.

* * *

_The air was thick with a swirling, dark mist. The hairs on the back of my neck seemed to stand at attention; my body became aware before my mind that there was something clearly amiss. Vision failed me, yet my other senses compensated for my blindness; an icy wind howled and moaned in my ears, a prickling sensation of grass emerged underneath my feet, and a most putrid and horrid scent filled my nostrils. _

_That scent... I had smelled it once and only once in my entire lifetime. Suddenly, I felt as if I had been pushed into the waters of the Isis during winter. The thick mist started to fade away and I could now see the silhouettes of gravestones. There was now something else there, however, and that was the most terrible thing of all. _

_Terror had chilled my bones. I attempted to run but I fell to the ground as I took my first step. I pinched my left leg and felt nothing... I then leaned upon a nearby gravestone to help myself stand up, but found that my right leg was paralyzed as well. In fact, all of my limbs were numb and limp. The heat of panic rushed to combat the chill of terror and I flailed in a vain attempt to run away from the vision that was coming ever closer towards me._

_The decaying smell became stronger and stronger as the figure approached. The elements were against me; the wind in my ears was deafening, the grass underneath my feet was slippery with dew, and the reek was stunning my senses into paralysis. Then, without warning, the gust ceased its moan and everything became still. _

_A tall shadowy figure stood behind me. My breath caught in my throat and my heartbeat seemed to stop. _

"_Charlie..." a decrepit, rotten-smelling voice whispered._

"_No, please, don't..." I childishly mumbled._

_Slithery and slimy hands grabbed my shoulders and whirled me around to face their owner. A swollen and bruised face stared at me as white bubbling foam tinged with crimson poured out of every orifice. That cloying, rotting aroma filled my lungs and bitter acid tingled in the back of my throat._

"_Save me, Charlie..." the ancient voice pressed me. How could such a familiar and loving voice turn into something so terrible?_

"_No, no, no, let me go!" _

"CHARLIE!"

"NO!"

This time, I felt the imprints of agile fingers digging into my shoulders instead of the slimy hands of the dead. My eyes flew open and I abruptly sat up to find myself in the dark of Mycroft Holmes' guest room. Cold sweat trickled down my back and dampened my clothes. My body was fighting to return back to its state of homeostasis when I felt a blanket wrap around my shoulders. I tensed and let out a frightened whimper.

"It's all right, Charlotte," a soothing voice whispered in the darkness.

"Holmes?" I questioned the room in between panting breaths.

"You were having a nightmare," he said as I felt the bed shift downwards due to the added weight.

My senses started to return to me and I hastily replaced my armor. I scathingly retorted, "Of course, I was having a nightmare. I would not have been screaming otherwise." I wrapped the blanket around me even tighter. Without looking directly at Holmes, I said in rather clipped tones, "Well, I am awake now. I think I will just read and then go back to sleep. Thank you, Holmes."

The weight on the bed remained, much to my annoyance.

"I am fine, Holmes," I repeated in a firm and clearly annoyed voice.

Silence once again greeted my ears. I was about to literally push him off of my bed when he abruptly spoke. "I will be in the parlor." I acknowledged his statement with a weak mumble and fumbled around for the clock on the nightstand. "It is approximately one in the morning, if you are wondering," he added as he sat up from the bed and walked over to the door. I grimaced at his annoying tendencies to be correct. He left the room but did not close the door behind him... much to my discontent.

I groaned and dropped back onto the bed. I then belatedly realized that I was still in the clothes that I had been wearing all afternoon and quickly changed into my nightgown. I brushed through the bush that was my hair, tied it with a ribbon, and pulled myself underneath the bedcovers. Yet, after about thirty minutes of tossing and turning, I discovered that I could not go to sleep.

Actually, I was _afraid_ to go to sleep.

I had raised my pillow into the air and was about to smother myself in desperation when I heard the sound of a violin skittering to life. Holmes had brought two things with him to London; one was a Gladstone bag and the other was his violin case. _Maybe if he played something soothing or calming I could go to sleep again_, I ruminated in bed. Then, for the second time that night, I felt as if my heart had stopped beating and my breath stuck in my throat.

I whirled out of bed, rushed down the hallway, and skidded into the parlor. The violin possessed Holmes' undivided attentions; his fingers firmly caressed the neck whilst his other hand expertly scraped the strings. He did not seem to notice my abrupt entrance into this serene setting. It was not Holmes' playing, however, that incited such a violent reaction on my part. It was the tune that he seemed to carelessly play on his old violin. The last time I had heard that tune was during that last summer…

"Do you need anything, Charlotte?"

"That song… How did you-? What are you-?" I mentally slapped myself and gathered my senses. "My father used to play that to me when I was sick."

"Your mother allowed me to borrow some of your father's sheet music," he distractedly stated as he stopped to turn the pegs. "You were there, you remember." His fingers stopped turning the pegs as he abruptly realized the haphazard nature of his playing and the possible effects that it had on me. "Would you like me to stop playing?"

My mouth opened to say "yes", but something in my mind prevented me from forming the word. Instead, I sat on the sofa and looked at Holmes. "You called me 'Charlie' when you were trying to wake me up."

The sitting room was dark as it was only minimally lit by dim gaslights. Hence, I could not see what Holmes's reaction to my statement. I noticed, however, that his silhouette seemed to stiffen; yet, my eyes may be mistaken as it was almost too dark to make out anything more. A moment passed between us until he loudly cleared his throat and explained himself.

"I heard sounds coming from your room and then you started to raise your voice. I attempted to wake you up as gently as possible by shaking you, but you were so engrossed in your dreams that I used your former epithet to get your attention. The latter technique worked; there is no other reason for me to use your name—"

"I did not say that there was no other motive for you to use my nickname, Holmes. You needn't be too defensive about it," I interrupted him as I fluffed up one of the sofa cushions and started to lie down. I paused and looked at Holmes, who was now looking out the window, and asked out of curiosity, "Was there any reason—"

"No!" Holmes sliced through my last statement with slightly more irritation than was needed. "It only served as a mental jolt to draw you away from your dream state. Nothing more and nothing less!" The bow scraped against the strings and started playing some Mozart piece.

_Perhaps now would be the opportune time to switch subjects,_ I mused to myself as I tried to repress the awkward implications of this situation. Instead, as the intelligent person that I am, I broached onto another sensitive subject.

"Holmes, when did you start injecting yourself with cocaine?" I blurted out without thinking. My hand automatically flew over my mouth like a reflex resulted from my stupidity. The music abruptly stopped; my mind imagined the icy gaze that was currently fixated on me. _Darkness has its benefits, _I blackly thought as I slapped myself on the forehead. Surprisingly, I was not eaten alive on the spot.

"I was introduced to it in my second year," Holmes uttered with such finality that the words in my mouth seemed to drop dead. He waited for any other impetuous questions on my part and then proceeded to pluck at one of the strings. He ruminated aloud, "Damn, it's out of tune." Various notes were plucked until it produced the right note. "Now, Charlotte, if you are only here to annoy me with trivialities, then I would like you to leave me alone to my thoughts."

"Oh, I won't bother you any longer, Holmes," I said as a yawn punctuated my words. My body settled into the cushions of the sofa. "I promise to not annoy you with my trivialities if you allow me to relax here whilst you play."

He did not say anything, but the melancholic sound of the violin reached my ears; it managed to ease my troubled mind enough to put me to sleep. Yet, my slumbers were not too deep and I soon became aware that the violin had stopped playing. The state between dreaming and consciousness is extremely deceiving as one does not know whether an event is true or the mind's fabrication. With my mind in this state, I felt an arm wrap around my waist in order to lift me up into a standing position. Nevertheless, the next morning, I awoke to find that I had slept in my bed.

* * *

"Holmes, we have been in London for three days," I informed him the next afternoon as my hand lazily turned the page of my thoroughly thumbed-through edition of Walt Whitman poetry. I looked over the top of my book and saw Holmes's form seated on the window bench. 

He turned his head in my direction. "Yes, Charlotte, I know how to count," he derisively answered and turned his attentions back to the window.

I snapped my book shut and reluctantly sat up from my seat on the spongy sofa. _It is no wonder that Mycroft is known to be such a sloth-like person_, I mused as I took a seat next to Holmes.I drew my knees up to my chin and wrapped my arms around my legs. About five minutes passed before Holmes stopped his watch and mirrored my actions, pulling his lean legs up to his chin.

"What are you concerned about?" he inquired.

"I am supposed to be in Sussex with your dear Aunt Violet and meeting your other relatives." I briefly examined my nails before I continued. "In other words, Holmes, we cannot stay here in London for an unsubstantiated amount of time. If we remain here for more than a week, my mother will become suspicious."

"Hmm..." Holmes nodded in response and leaned on the wall behind him. He opened his mouth to say something more but seemed to reconsider and shut his mouth. No word passed between us for quite some time, but I was quite used to these episodic silences. Finally, he spoke. "There is nothing more we can accomplish here. We will return to Oxford tomorrow morning."

"Why not tonight?"

One of his eyebrows rose in a questioning gaze. "Are you really that anxious to return home?"

"No," I immediately retorted in defense, though Holmes's words were true.

"Besides, we would not want that man over there following us home, now would we?" he said in a light voice as he subtly jerked his head towards the window. Hesitation resulted from the fear of failure prevented me from looking at the man; yesterday's events played in my head. Vacillation must have been plainly written on my face, for a gentle yet slightly mocking smile fell upon Holmes's features. "You may look, but try not to be so obvious to deter our friend down there. Come closer so that you may see." I slowly stood up from my curled position and allowed my eyes to follow Holmes's beckoning hand. "Stay behind me and try not to make yourself too visible."

I followed his instructions and stood behind him, but all I could see was the usual pedestrian traffic along Pall Mall with the usual suit-clad gentlemen, dainty-footed ladies, and few maids accomplishing their daily duties. Embarrassment began to seep through my senses; what seemed so obvious to Holmes was quite invisible to me. I could not see our follower and decided that something was wrong with my eyes.

My long silence seemed to confirm my opacity and Holmes grasped my wrist and pulled me closer to the window instead of scolding me as he was wont to do. "Get on your knees," he distractedly ordered without realizing the difficulty for me to assume such a position. I hunched over my walking stick and very slowly managed to crouch. "Can you see him now?"

"All I can see is the shoulder of your suit and a partial view of the buildings ahead of me," I joked.

A small smile appeared in the window's reflection. "Place your hands on my shoulder and rest your chin upon them so that you may see better." I readjusted my position as Holmes had ordered.

"There. Now, can you see our curious gentleman down there?"

My eyes scanned the crowd and I finally saw the figure Holmes had dubbed our "curious" gentleman. Our last follower had been a handsome and bespectacled youth, but this was a different gentleman; he was middle-aged and burly, with shades of grey peppering his dark hair.

"How can you tell that he is following us?" I queried.

Holmes rubbed the underside of his jaw in a distracted manner. "I saw him several times last night standing at that very same street corner. He is obviously an amateur for this type of work."

"So, there are two gentlemen following us?" I commented more to myself than to Holmes.

"So it seems, though I think it is very likely that there are only those two men involved." His seated position suddenly shifted and he abruptly turned around to face me. I would have fallen forward onto him if he had not steadied me by grabbing my shoulders. "We will head back to Oxford in the morning. We may have to steal away, however, before dawn breaks."

A groan tumbled from my mouth. He knew how I hated being roused at inopportune times. If waking up at the crack of dawn resulted in returning to Oxford, however, I would be more than happy to stay awake the entire night. My Walt Whitman book seemed to call out for me; I got up from the floor and returned to the soft cushions of Mycroft's comfortable sofa. I opened the book to where I left off and started to read once again. Holmes, meanwhile, continued his vigil watching our watcher.

A considerable amount of time passed before we spoke; I had finished reading the book and had started to twirl my walking stick in my right hand in boredom. Mrs. Costello dropped in with a tray of tea and we politely chatted for a few minutes before she resumed her other duties. Holmes, naturally, did not touch a single thing on the tray and remained in his seat by the window. I, on the other hand, practically destroyed the assortment of muffins and biscuits and guzzled about half of the tea pot in one sitting. The walking stick went back into my hand and began to twirl.

"Charlotte," Holmes abruptly spoke after about an hour and a half of silence.

The walking stick flew out of my hand and fell to the floor with a large clatter. I exclaimed, "Damn it, Holmes!"

The patter of Mrs. Costello's footsteps sounded on the wooden floor followed by the concerned sound of her voice. "What happened? Is there anyone hurt?"

"No, not at all," Holmes replied in a casual fashion. "It appears that I frightened Miss Andrewes and she reacted badly."

Mrs. Costello nodded and then stated, "I should tell you that Master Mycroft will be coming home from the club soon."

"Thank you, Mrs. Costello," Holmes and I spoke in unison and she bowed out of the sitting room. Finally, after almost two hours of remaining seated, Holmes stood up and stretched his limbs. He went over to stoke the flames in the fireplace and leaned against the mantle. "Honestly, Charlotte, don't you think that your reaction was a tad melodramatic?"

"Of all the people to scold me about theatrics," I muttered and playfully threw my book towards Holmes. His quick hands adeptly caught the book and he flipped through the pages before placing it atop the mantle. "Why did you call for me?"

"Oh, it was merely a simple inquiry." I could not help but to roll my eyes, for a simple inquiry from Holmes was never simple. He ignored my expression and continued, "Did your father ever tell you why he left Boston?"

"Yes. He met my mother and decided to stay here with her," I explained in a bored fashion. "My father actually met my mother when he was touring through St. James's Park. He saw her from far away, felt compelled to talk to her, and essentially spent the rest of his vacation getting to know her."

Holmes's eyes narrowed as though something horrid had been shoved underneath his nose. "Is that all he told you?"

"Why, Holmes?" The look on his face was enough to make me sit up in my chair. "What's in your head, Holmes?"

"It does not seem normal that your father would move to England to marry your mother. A man would usually have his wife relocate to his home instead and, in your father's case, to live in Boston. However, that is exactly what he did not do. The thought that is currently running through my mind is that I believe that there was something that your father wanted to leave behind in Boston and, while your parents loved each other, I think that your father took this as an opportunity to get away from his problems."

The theory that my father ran away from home by marrying my mother stung despite Holmes's caveat. I did not utter a word against his hypothesis, but the distaste that I felt seemed must have been evident in my appearance.

"I am not saying that your father married your mother only for those pragmatic reasons—"

"No, that is something you would do," I muttered in what I thought to be an inaudible voice. It was not until I felt a freezing cold stare that I realized that I had spoken louder than I had intended.

"That was uncalled for, Charlotte," Holmes reprimanded in an uncharacteristically soft voice. He straightened the lapels of his coat and then continued with his previous train of thought as though nothing happened. "It was quite obvious that your father loved your mother; anyone can deduce that on their own without me telling them so." A wry smile briefly curled his lips in self-deprecation. "However, he chose to stay in England and had extremely limited communications with his family while he was still alive. That sounds rather intriguing, don't you think?"

"It is rather intriguing, I have to admit." I reluctantly conceded. "You know, Holmes, the only relative he actually corresponded with was his brother, my Uncle Ben."

"The unopened letter that your father burned was from Boston, the figure on Folly Bridge spoke in a Northeastern accent… everything points to Boston, it seems," Holmes ruminated to himself as he glanced at the mirror hanging above the mantle.

My mind immediately heard the implications of his last statement. I vigorously shook my head as I spoke. "Holmes, my mother may have let me accompany you on a faux voyage to Sussex, but I hardly think that she would allow me to travel to Boston."

He eyed me through the mirror's reflection with a mock surprised look on his face. "Why, Charlotte, whatever would make you think such a thing?"

I crossed my arms over my chest and gazed back at him with a disbelieving look. A_ click_ sounded from the door behind me and Mycroft entered the room with his fleshy face flushed red by the breeze outside. Mrs. Costello emerged from the kitchen and quickly helped her employer out of his coat and stowed away his briefcase.

"Do you know when dinner will be ready, Mrs. Costello?" Mycroft inquired as he opened up his cigar box and pulled out a cigar.

"The usual time, Master Mycroft," she primly answered as her keen eyes spotted the half-empty tea tray. She took the tray back into her capable hands and bustled back into the kitchen.

"Do you mind if I smoke, Miss Andrewes?" Mycroft politely inquired after he finished clipping his cigar. I gave the obligatory nod and he opened the windows a little to allow the noxious fumes to escape.

"Mycroft, I shall tell you that you will be rid of us very soon as we will leave for Oxford at the break of dawn tomorrow… with your help, of course. We certainly do not want to be followed."

"By the way, did you notice the gentleman standing in the corner, Sherlock?" Mycroft said in between a puff of his cigar. Holmes silently acknowledged that he had with a short nod. "He is rather obvious, I am afraid. I will be more than willing to assist you from your flight."

"Thank you, Mycroft. Oh, and I have something else that I must consult with you." Holmes informed him in an off-handed manner. Mycroft walked over to his brother, stood at the opposite end of the mantle, and waited for Holmes to consult with him. However, Holmes did not speak what was on his mind at that moment. His grey eyes quickly flashed in my direction and then returned to Mycroft. "I will talk to you at another time this evening."

"Talk about what?" I asked, though I already knew the answer I would receive.

Holmes's hand waved his hand in a dismissive fashion. "It is nothing you should be concerned with for the time being."

I grudgingly nodded in resigned acceptance and, yet, in the back of my mind, a niggling thought wormed its way into my head and refused to go away.

_Just what should I not be concerned with for the time being and when will I become concerned about it?_


	18. A Most Unconventional Proposal

**_Terribly sorry for the delay. School is quickly winding down and with that, comes dreaded finals and such, so please bear with me. Take solace that summer is here and I will soon be free to write on a more regular basis. _**

* * *

****

"Now, Sherlock, do take care of this," Mycroft implored in a soft voice as he deposited something into his brother's hands. "You know how—"

"Yes, Mycroft, I know," Holmes interrupted him with a sharp voice and a dismissing wave of his hand as he placed it inside his pocket. I stood on the tips of my toes to try and see what he had placed into Holmes' palm, but he was much too quick for me; he placed the handkerchief-wrapped object into his breast pocket. A sigh of exasperation seemed to signal my arrival. Holmes' head leaned upwards and a small smile curved his thin lips. "Morning, Charlotte."

"What's that?" I inquired, completely ignoring his polite greeting.

"Nothing you should concern yourself with for the moment," Holmes answered with another indifferent wave of his hand.

My arms automatically folded themselves against my chest in frustration. "Now, why does that statement sound so familiar? Oh, right, because you told me the same thing _yesterday_."

"I will be outside waiting for your hansom," Mycroft said as he hastily made his way out of the parlor.

"Seriously, Holmes, what is it that Mycroft gave you?" I asked once again as I made my way towards him with wide and ungainly steps. He still did not provide me with any answer but, instead, walked towards the window. It was much too early for this sort of prevarication. "I refuse to be ignored."

He whirled around in annoyance and I was instantly met with the icy gust of his stare. "Well, I am afraid that you will have to become accustomed to being ignored if you continue to ask impertinent questions." He carefully peered through the curtains of the window as he said, "As I previously told you, Charlotte, I will tell you when the time is appropriate and now is not the time. Ah, I see the hansom has arrived." With that, Holmes brushed past me and went out the front door.

It was during times like this in which I felt compelled to take up smoking. I went back to my room to fetch my valise and my walking stick. While retrieving the items, I happened to glance out my window and noticed Mycroft and Holmes speaking to the hansom driver on the pavement. My eyes traveled toward the corner where we had seen our "gentleman" follower the night before; he was not there and neither was his friend, the bespectacled young man. _Good for us_, I mused as I walked out the door and down the stairs. Once outside, the hansom driver tipped his hat towards me in greeting, took my bag out of my hands, walked across the street, and placed it inside the hansom.

Mycroft turned to his sibling. "Well, do take care of yourself, Sherlock."

"Yes, of course, and you as well," Holmes replied as both of them shook each other's hand.

"Thank you, Mycroft," I said as he turned towards me. "You have been extraordinarily patient with the both of us." He gently shook my own hand as a genuine smile passed across his doughy face. "Do send my regards to the good Mrs. Costello. That woman is an utter angel."

"I shall tell her so," he warmly assured me. "Now, you and Sherlock must hurry along if you do not want to be spotted."

"Yes, we must head for the station. As Horace once said, 'While we're talking, envious time is fleeing: seize the day, put no trust in the future.'" Holmes took hold of my wrist and then proceeded to pull me across the street towards the waiting hansom. "Farewell, Mycroft!"

* * *

Holmes informed me on the way to the station that he had known about the two followers before last night; the bespectacled youth would watch from sunrise to sunset whereas the grey-haired gentlemen watched from twilight to approximately two or three in the morning. This ultimately meant that there was a considerable amount of time where neither of us was under surveillance.

Of course, this did not stop him from taking extra precautions. We changed hansoms at several different places at several different times. Our hansom weaved its way down several indirect routes that must have covered all of London. The sun hung low in the pale sky by the time we entered Victoria Station and I felt as though I had been awake for more than a day.

"You look absolutely dead on your feet," Holmes declared as he approached the ticket window.

"It's because I am," I muttered as I pinched the bridge of my nose. A headache began to painfully throb in my temples. "If it weren't for the cup of coffee this morning and the threat of public humiliation, I would probably collapse onto the station's gleaming floors." A loose strand from my precariously tied bun fell onto my eyes. All attempts to blow it away from my face proved fruitless.

Holmes lifted his hand and tucked the offensive strand behind my ear. My face suddenly tingled as if it had been splashed by ice water. I attempted to keep the expression on my face as nonchalant as possible. Meanwhile, he acted as though nothing had happened as he started to say, "You do not need to stand in line with me. Why not take a seat at one of the benches by the platform? Leave your bag; allow me to carry it for you."

I decided to take advantage of his kindness and rushed over to the benches. I went to the farthest bench and all but keeled over in my seat. My legs unconsciously stretched themselves in front of me as I leant my walking stick against the left arm of the bench. _Ah, now this felt quite good._ My body had relaxed yet my mind refused to do so and fixated itself on what had just occurred.

_Now, why did he do that_? My mind tried to grasp on a particular reason but nothing immediately came to mind. _Perhaps Holmes was only trying to be a gentleman_…yes, that could be possible and absolutely plausible. After all, he did not act as though it were anything out of the ordinary. _Yes, that must be it_, I convinced myself. Still, there was the question concerning my own reaction. The tingling sensation I felt from his touch…I had never felt anything like that before and, quite honestly, it felt very nice.

_Oh, dear God, now where did that thought come from? _Associating Holmes with something pleasurable? Surely, fatigue must be playing foul with my thoughts for me to be even thinking like this. _Yes, that must be it,_ I convinced myself once again. After all, Holmes and I are extraordinarily incompatible. Nothing could ever work out between us…right?

The sound of a throat clearing itself fell upon my ears and thankfully broke my perverse chain of thoughts. My brow furrowed in irritation as I lifted my hand to my closed eyes and stated, "First, you tell me that I should rest for awhile and, just as I am thoroughly relaxed, you are about to tell me to get on my feet once more. Firecrackers, Holmes! If I weren't so tired, I'd murder you."

"Look, I just wanted to know if the seat next to you is taken."

My eyes snapped open and I hastily removed my hand from my brow to see to whom I was actually speaking. The first thing I noticed about the man standing to my right was his hair; it was a mass of light brown curls that hung around his long pale face. A pair of cornflower blue eyes looked at me with a curious gaze from a slightly hook-shaped nose.

"Oh, I apologize," I muttered as I instantly sat up in my seat and smoothed my skirt. My face flushed crimson as I tried to maintain any dignity I had left. "Yes—I mean, no—the seat is not taken and you may sit down."

"Thanks," he replied with a crooked smile as he took the seat next to me. I immediately noticed that he was a nervous or impatient sort of man; he leaned forward in his seat with his arms crossed over his knobby knees while his right leg jiggled up and down like a piston. Up and down his leg went, strongly reminding me of the wag of a dog's tail.

I massaged my temples as I vainly attempted to alleviate my headache when I heard a reedy, brittle, biting, and, yet, pleasantly musical sound next to me. I looked towards my right and saw the gentlemen next to me with what appeared to be a metal bar placed against his lips. His spidery fingers caressed the shining metal as though it were the hand of a loved one. I also noticed that his jostling leg had ceased its jerking rhythm. Suddenly, he stopped playing and turned to me with that same crooked smile.

"I'm sorry. That must be disturbing you. I can be so damn inconsiderate sometimes… well, most of the time, anyway," he said in a quick rush of words. Much to my amusement, I noticed that his voice was very similar to the instrument that he played; his voice possessed a slightly nasal and thin quality that managed to sound pleasant. It was also clear that this man was not a Londoner; he did not seem British for that matter. _He sounded American_, I thought. He pulled a checkered handkerchief from his coat pocket and began to wrap up the minute instrument when I stopped him.

"No! No, it wasn't disturbing me at all. I'm actually curious to what instrument you're playing. I've never heard anything like it before."

His blue eyes widened in interest as he angled himself towards me. "You've never heard a harmonica before?" He inquired in that reedy voice. I shook my head in response. He loudly cleared his throat and then coughed as he held the harmonica in his hands. "Well, this is a harmonica. It's a lovely and simple, little thing. All you gotta do is blow through the holes on the side here and the sound comes out like this." He demonstrated as such by blowing a tentative note. "See? Simple and easy; you can probably do it. I'd let you try, but that would be disgusting and all with the saliva and everything like that."

A laugh gurgled in my chest for the first time that day. He returned my smile with his own crooked, close-mouthed smirk. He briefly rubbed his chin in a nervous manner, placed the harmonica to his lips, and began to play a slow, melancholy tune.

"Charlotte," a familiar voice said from behind me. I turned and saw Holmes twirling the walking stick in his hands. "We really must be boarding the train right now."

"All right, then," I answered as I stood up from my seat. I turned to the man next to me, who was still playing on his harmonica. His light blue eyes met mine and he nodded his good-bye as I did the same. I added, "You play wonderfully."

His gratitude was illustrated in the same way as his good-bye: simple nod; yet, I thought I caught the ghost of that crooked smile on his face. Holmes and I walked towards our train and boarded it just as the steam whistle blew and nearly deafened me. We discovered an empty compartment just as the train started to move out of Victoria Station.

_Oxford!_ Oh, I could almost see all of it sprawled before me. I was returning to my _terra firma_ and relief flooded through my body at that delicious knowledge. Holmes chuckled at the apparent happiness on my face.

"You really miss Oxford, I gather?"

"No," I naturally contradicted. "I am actually looking forward to not sharing a roof with you."

Another chuckle bubbled from Holmes. "I may actually agree with you on that point, Charlotte. Yet, I must say that the experience was not as horrible as I thought it would be."

_Now, what did he mean by that? _Suddenly, my earlier musings abruptly resurfaced and my face turned red. It was lucky that Holmes was not looking in my direction at the moment and I decided to switch subjects. "What do you think our _gentlemen_ will think when they find that we are no longer at Mycroft's residence?" I asked as I twirled my walking stick with my fingers.

"They will follow us to Oxford as that is the most logical place," he started to say as he pulled out his cigarette tin. His eyes glanced up toward me as he tapped a cigarette on the metal tin. He briefly stood up and pulled the window down about an inch. He then returned to his seat and proceeded to light his cigarette. Tendrils of smoke oozed from his nostrils and mouth as he spoke once again. "However, I believe that it will take them a long time to figure out that we have slipped under their sights and we shall be long gone by then."

"Where are we going then?" I asked despite the look with which I had become familiar spread across his face. He opened his mouth to provide that answer, but I stole the words out of his mouth. "You will tell me when the proper time comes."

He leaned back in his chair with his index finger tightly pressed against his mouth. "Exactly."

"You know, Holmes, you can be extraordinarily infuriating," I grumbled as my grip slipped on my twirling walking stick. His cat-like reflexes seized it before it fell on the floor. "Thank you," I said as I placed my walking stick in my lap for safe-keeping.

"Yes, I tend to have that effect on people," he retorted in good humor.

"Holmes?"

"Yes?"

"What did Mycroft give you?"

"Charlotte…"

"Oh! All right, I won't ask anymore. I'm almost afraid to know what it is."

* * *

Oxford was the same as I left it. The silver clouded skies with the lush green of the countryside welcomed me back. A light shower of rain was falling as Holmes and I disembarked the train yet my spirits could not be dampened.

I was home once more.

I logically understood that I had only been gone for three days yet it felt that I had been gone for a much longer period of time. The knowledge we had obtained during our stay in the capitol was relatively vast, which perhaps made our stay seem longer. However, I felt that being around Holmes for three straight days was the actual reason.

Holmes peered up at the light drizzle that greeted us. "Ah, Oxford, she welcomes us back into her arms."

"Indeed," I answered in a peaceful tone when my mind suddenly fastened on a troubling thought. "Holmes, we should have sent a telegram to my mother yesterday. After all, she will not be expecting us back and it is rather rude of us to not send notice."

He winced at this realization and quickly gathered his thoughts around him. He answered after a quick moment, "We shall simply tell her that there was a rather blustery storm that passed through the area and temporarily knocked down the lines." He cleared his throat and took his Gladstone bag and his violin case into one hand and then looked at my bag. "May I take your bag?"

"No, I have two hands, Holmes. I can manage to walk _and _carry my own bag, you do know." I sardonically replied as I started to walk towards the end of the station where several hansoms were waiting.

Holmes quickly caught up with me in about two steps and lectured, "You know, Charlotte, you must not try and take every attempt to be polite as condescension towards your handicap." My face soured at the final word while a bittersweet smile flitted across Holmes' features. "I know how capable you are despite your…" he stopped for a moment to consider what word he should use and then said with a sidelong glance towards my direction, "Your difficulties," I shrugged as it sounded slightly better than the other word. He continued, "Very well, I know that despite your difficulties you are a well-rounded young woman capable of handling herself."

"Why, thank you, Holmes. I must say that that previous statement is probably one of the nicest things that you have ever said. It must have been terribly painful for you to say something like that."

Holmes laughed and then said, "In my defense, dear Charlotte, it must be horribly difficult for you to actually show your gratitude towards me without adding some sort of sarcastic reply."

For no other reason that I could think of, besides proving him wrong, I told him in an honest voice, "Thank you, Holmes. You do not know how much it means to me that you are helping me."

His face was unreadable as I stole a glance towards his direction. Not a word came from his mouth and we continued to walk in awkward silence. _Damnation_, I silently cursed myself. Here I was, actually opening up to this man and I felt as if he had slammed a door in my face. I was immediately regretting ever saying anything at all when I heard a very soft reply from next to me.

"You are quite welcome," he said with a genuine smile upon his face.

We boarded one of the available hansoms and soon bustled towards our destination when I called Holmes. He stopped his inspection of the countryside and turned towards me with raised eyebrows that waited for what I had to say.

"Yes, Charlotte?"

"What was it that Mycroft give you?"

His eyes bulged as he buried his head in his hands in exasperation. The only response I received was a rather loud, "Damn it, woman!"

Apparently, now was not the time.

I was greeted by an ear shattering shriek and a bone crushing embrace. My mother was a petite figure yet she managed to ensnare my weed-like stature like a bear trap. Normally I would have tried to pry myself away from a potentially embarrassing scenario like this but I had honestly missed being coddled like this. She finally released me from her vise-like grip and gently held me at arm's length to inspect me.

"Oh, Charlotte, I do believe that Sussex has done you some good. How was your time at the Downs?"

"It was quite lovely," I simply replied; the less details I divulged, the fewer chances I had of making a mistake and saying something wrong. "Everything about the place was just lovely. Mr. Holmes' aunt was so kind to us during our stay."

"Well, that is very good to hear." Mum beamed as she briefly clasped her hands in mine. She then turned her attention to Holmes. "It is very good to see you once again, Mr. Holmes."

Holmes politely smiled and returned my mother's greeting. He then cleared his throat and said, "I must apologize for what appears to be our abrupt return. We would have sent a telegram to inform you of our return home but the weather caused the lines to be out of service for a good while."

"Oh, that is no problem at all. I am simply glad to see the both of you back in Oxford once again." She asserted as she walked inside the house. "Do make yourselves comfortable. Josephine will tend to your bag and unpack it for you."

"Mrs. Andrewes, if it is at all possible, may I have a private word with you?" Holmes inquired as he hung up his coat on one of the open hooks on the wall.

Mother replied with a nod, "Yes, you may. I am about to have a quick luncheon in the kitchen so perhaps you may join me there."

"That will be fine, Madam," Holmes acquiesced and then headed for the kitchen after my mother.

A clatter of footsteps shook the staircase as Josephine jostled down the steps. She gave me a quick wave as she took my bag into her capable hands. "Good to see you again, Miss Charlotte. Good day, Mr. Holmes."

"It is good to see you too, Josephine," I warmly greeted her in return.

"Good day, Josephine," Holmes addressed her with a polite nod.

"Oh, Charlotte," Mum's voice came sailing into my ears once again. I turned to see her head peeking out from the kitchen threshold. "I neglected to tell you that Anne and Geoffrey are here."

No sooner had Mum announced this, I heard the lilting gurgle that could only come from a small infant followed by a maternal cooing sound. Anne soon emerged from the hallway with little Veronica perched on her shoulder. Anne smiled when her eyes met mine and she took the baby's hand in hers and made Veronica wave in my direction.

"Look, Ronnie, there's your Auntie Charlotte."

A wide grin threatened to break my face in half over the little bundle of joy in my sister's arms. I all but ran towards Anne to inspect the little cherub in her arms. Little Veronica was a darling little thing; she had her mother's brown eyes and her father's fair hair. Anne instructed me to place a finger in the child's open palm. I did so and to my delight Veronica ensnared my finger into her chubby little hand.

"Oh, Anne, I believe that a child's hand is one of the most beautiful things in the world." I declared as I smoothed Veronica's hair over her brow. Veronica's protuberant eyes met mine and she gaily gurgled her greeting. I could not help but coo at the lovely child, "Yes, Ronnie, I'm your Auntie Charlotte and I'm going to spoil you rotten."

"Yes, your Auntie Charlotte will probably be sending packages of Dickens and Poe to our doorstep before the little one can read." I looked up and saw Geoff appear above me on the staircase. He bounded down the stairs and took me in a firm embrace. "Hello, Charlotte."

"Good to see you, Geoff." I mumbled into his shoulder. "However, I must correct you; the Dickens is what I shall be sending. The Poe is much too frightening for a little poppet like that."

He chuckled in good humor as he cleaned his spectacles with a handkerchief. He then turned to Holmes and extended his hand in greeting. "Ah, Mr. Holmes, it is very good to see you as well."

"Congratulations on the child's birth," Holmes greeted as he shook hands.

"Charlotte, would you like to hold her?" Anne asked as the little one writhed in her arms.

"I'd love to, Anne, but…you know…" I awkwardly motioned towards my withered arm. "I don't want to drop her."

Anne bit her lip as she rocked Veronica. "Well, why don't you sit down in the parlor and lay her in your arms." It was a perfect solution. I sat down on the settee with Anne and she motioned the proper way to hold her. Once I had mastered the proper technique, she gently placed Veronica in my arms.

Veronica shifted uncomfortably in my arms as she acknowledged that she was not in familiar territory. I tried to soothe her, "Shh, Veronica, I'm your family. I'm your Auntie Charlotte, poppet." The introduction seemed to placate the child as her only response was to shove her thumb into her tiny mouth. "Oh, you're a beautiful, little thing, aren't you? I bet you're going to break a bunch of hearts when you're older…just like your Mum."

"Charlotte!" Anne exclaimed in protest.

"It is only a jest, Anne." I reassured my sister with a laugh.

"Mr. Holmes, would you like to take a look at her?" Anne asked. I turned towards Holmes, who stood at the parlor's threshold. Strangely, he seemed uncomfortable for some reason; he was the farthest person from Anne, Geoff, and me. He tentatively approached the settee and took a seat besides me. Anne seemed unaware of Holmes' wariness since she said, "She's beautiful, isn't she, Mr. Holmes?"

Holmes cleared his throat and briefly glanced towards Veronica's direction. "Yes, she looks just like you, Mrs. Humphreys."

Anne beamed, looked down at her daughter, and laughed. "Oh, Charlotte, she fell asleep!" Sure enough, Veronica had curled up in my arms and had fallen asleep. "Geoff and I are going to have a quick lunch. Do you mind taking care of her for…oh, about half an hour or so?"

I started to sputter excuses but they seemed to fall on deaf ears. Anne and Geoff took off faster than one could say, "Gratis Governess!" I was now all alone in a room with a dozing infant and Holmes, both intimidating in different ways. I hardly thought of myself as the maternal type and the most experience I ever had before this little bundle in my arms was a baby doll that I had grown bored with after a day. It was lucky that she was asleep for I had absolutely no idea what to do.

The confusion I was feeling must have been very apparent on my features as Holmes started to silently quake with laughter.

"What are you laughing at?" I vehemently whispered as I did not want to wake up the child. He shook his head but continued to laugh in silence. "Tell me, Holmes, what is it that you find so amusing?"

He finally calmed down and whispered, "I do believe that this is the most perplexed and helpless that I have ever seen you."

"Oh, and you think it's funny to see me in such a position?" I said a little louder than I intended. Veronica squirmed in my arms and I instantly shut my mouth to prevent myself from waking her up. I glared at Holmes and then shifted Veronica onto my shoulder with great care.

"She is so tiny," Holmes mused aloud as he scrutinized the child. Veronica was lucky that she was asleep; I certainly did not want her first memory to be a pair of grey eyes gazing at her in detached curiosity. He cryptically added, "So vulnerable…"

I turned back to Holmes with a look of shock on my face. It was such a jarring statement; an infant is usually described as "cute", "chubby", or "lovely" but "vulnerable?" It is not something that you say as one is leaning over a child's pram or in any other situation. I was about to viciously retort when the words died on my lips the moment I looked at Holmes.

A thoughtful look rested on his aquiline features but there was nothing new about that; there were hundreds of times that I had seen him in that manner. What was different was that there was a subtle grimace of pain that I had never seen before and doubted he would have let anyone else see; I do not think that even he was aware of the expression on his face. That is, until, I was fool enough to bring up the subject.

"Holmes, is there anything the matter?"

He furiously shook his head and waved his hand away as though he were swatting an infuriating insect. "No, there is nothing the matter." I was about to ask him again but he gave me such a terrible look that I immediately decided against it. We sat in awkward silence save for Veronica who was blissfully unaware of the events happening around her. Anne and Geoffrey returned some time later as blissfully unaware as their daughter.

* * *

Holmes and I decided to go for a walk around Christ Church meadow when my complimentary governess duties completed. The drizzle of rain that had greeted us this morning had faded away. The sky overhead burnished blue while the birds serenaded the meadow's promenading visitors. Our stroll was mostly silent, which was fine for the both of us; we did not have the compulsion to have a conversation unless there was something that needed to be said. The silence between us was, nevertheless, soon interrupted.

"Sherlock, is that you?" The shriek curdled my blood, pierced my eardrums, and stopped us in our tracks. There was only one person who could incite such a reaction in us. My gaze shifted to Holmes and his eyes were shut in a pained expression. He resignedly sighed and turned around as though he was facing a firing squad. I followed suit and our suspicions were confirmed.

Emily Ellis stood swathed in a lacy pink confection of a frock. An ornate hat was perched upon her blonde hair, which was arranged in perfect ringlets around her heart-shaped face. A wide grin stretched across her features. Her overall appearance gave me the impression that I was standing before Alice's Cheshire Cat.

Holmes was the first one to speak. "Good afternoon, Miss Ellis."

A girlish giggle fluttered in her throat as she playfully slapped Holmes. "Oh, Sherlock, must you always be so polite? I insist you call me 'Emily.'" She sighed in a theatric manner and turned towards me. Her demeanor suddenly changed from bubbly exuberance to icy contempt. "Hello, Miss Andrewes."

"Miss Ellis," I managed to say with what I hoped was a polite smile. "How are you?"

"Oh, quite well," she answered in a sickly sweet voice as she turned to someone next to her. "Aren't I, darling?"

The extravagant and terrifying sight of Emily had distracted me from the man standing next to her. I felt the blood drain from my skin the moment I recognized him. "Yes, Emmy, dear," Aidan Keating answered as he lifted up her hand and kissed it. They both smiled at each other for quite some time until Aidan broke their eye contact and looked at me. "Hello, Charlotte."

"Aidan, what a pleasant surprise," I tried to say without the least bit of sarcasm. "So... what brings you two here?"

"I could ask the same question," Aidan replied as he crossed his arms over his chest and flashed that winning smile of his. "Well, Emmy and I thought that it would be a nice day for a stroll on the meadow and it appears that you lot had the same thought."

"Oh, Sherlock," Emily began to say as she twirled the equally lacy parasol on her shoulder and glued her eyes onto my walking stick. "Do you think that a walk is necessarily good thing? I would think that Miss Andrewes..."

"Actually, Emily, it was I who suggested that we take a walk," I interrupted with an even voice. "But, what about you, Miss Ellis? Do you think that a saunter through the park is necessarily good thing? I would think that the Oxford mud would ruin the _lovely _silk of your dress."

Her grin slipped a bit at my comment and she seemed to wonder whether it was a joke or a snide remark. I pasted a polite but enigmatic smile on my face; _let her decide what I had meant_. She took my comment as a joke and started to giggle. Emily was obviously unaware that I really wanted to make her stumble over my walking stick and to watch her and her fine silks tumble into the Oxford mud. Aidan was, however, more acquainted with me; a cough that suspiciously sounded like a laugh racked him for a good minute.

The scenario seemed doomed to descend into an uncomfortable silence when Emily practically thrust her left hand in my face. I initially thought that she was going to punch or slap me, but reconsidered the thought when I saw an unwieldy-looking diamond ring on her finger. My jaw actually dropped in awe as a rather slimy, green feeling slithered down my spine.

"Well, that is quite a ring there," I dumbly blurted out.

Holmes luckily spoke up to elaborate my stupid comment. "Congratulations to the both of you," he politely praised. "When will the marriage occur?"

Emily and Aidan turned to each other and started to consult amongst themselves in breathless whispers. They whispered, giggled, and grinned at each other in the annoying manner that lovebirds often do. Holmes and I shared dubious glances with each other during their little consultation. I was about to use my walking stick in a most unladylike fashion when they finally turned back to us.

"Well, Aidan and I," Emily began to say but, before she could continue, locked eyes with Aidan and dissolved into laughter. They regrouped themselves after some time and Emily continued. "You see, we can't decide whether to hold the ceremony in the summer or the winter. Aidan wants it in the summer but I want it in the winter so my dress can match with the snow."

"How about you, Holmes?" Aidan jauntily asked as though they had not fought over me as a prize. _My goodness, that seems like a lifetime ago_, I thought to myself. _So much had happened since then._ "Are we going to hear wedding bells in the future?"

Holmes smiled in what appeared to be good humor, but I knew better; he felt, as I did, too, that Aidan had crossed a personal boundary. Instead of ridiculing the fellow, however, he irreverently replied, "Fear not for the future, weep for the past."

Aidan humorlessly chuckled while Emily's face contorted into an expression of deep puzzlement. I was not fond of Emily Ellis, to say the very least, but I did have a polite respect for her beau. "What Sherlock means to say is that marriage is a major step for the both of us and we believe that we should not rush into an engagement until we have become better acquainted."

It was a diplomatic answer that would have made the likes of Benjamin Disraeli proud. _They may like to splash their relationship in public, but they should not expect the same candidness from Holmes and me…_

_Your courtship is a sham, remember?_ the little voice in my head strongly reminded me. I felt as though I had been betrayed by my own wits.

Emily was uninterestedly gazing at the opulent ring on her finger. This looked like the proper time for an exit. Holmes seemed to come to the same conclusion and said, "Well, we have an engagement to attend." He briefly shook hands with Aidan and gently clasped Emily's hand. "Congratulations, once again."

"It was good to see you again, Sherlock," Emily purred. She turned her icy eyes onto me and said with great difficulty, "The same to you, Miss Andrewes."

I nodded in acknowledgement of her sentiment and awkwardly waved my goodbye to Aidan. The pair walked away, arm-in-arm, and disappeared into their own world. Holmes was first to vocalize his gratitude of their exit.

"The nerve of Keating..." He fumed more to himself than for my ears. "How can he make such an inquiry? It is no business of his at all..."

"Indeed," I distractedly mumbled as he continued to seethe. I suddenly felt restless and no longer wanted to walk around the meadow. A pint at the local public house seemed awfully good at the moment. I declared that we head for the Bird and Baby. His brow scrunched at my abrupt demand, but he did not say a single thing. His only reaction was to lace my arm through his as we headed toward Giles Street.

* * *

The barmaid delivered a pint for me and a glass of claret for Holmes. We both gave her our thanks and I consumed a good fourth of the glass with my first gulp. A disapproving grimace crossed Holmes' features and I merely shrugged as a reply. It was only a matter of time before Holmes would interrogate my peculiar behavior; if, that is, he had not yet figured out what exactly was bothering me. In fact, even I had no idea what had provoked this morose streak in me…or perhaps I did but was unwilling to acknowledge it.

"Keating's engagement..." Holmes thought aloud as he pressed his index finger to his lips. "Their courtship was quite short. It makes me wonder..."

Curiosity was something that I would have normally expressed about Holmes' thoughts, but I did not feel like riding the dizzying train of my faux beau's thoughts. "Mmhmm," I merely replied. The pint tasted very good and the sliminess that ensnared me started to loosen its hold. He patiently waited for my normal response of akin to, "Wonder what? What is on your mind, Holmes?" It soon became clear that I would not be voicing my own queries and he proceeded with his chain of thought.

"There is an element of haste about their sudden engagement that is rather curious. Did you notice that Emily's clothing is a tad different from what she normally wears?"

"It is probably the latest style from Paris or something or other," I mumbled. I really wanted him to stop talking about Emily Ellis and Aidan Keating's engagement. "Why have you taken a sudden interest in Emily Ellis's fashion, Holmes?" He did not provide me with an answer, but took a sip of his claret. My mind unwillingly returned back to our meeting. Emily was still the same frilly and girlish dresses in her favorite color; there was nothing out of the ordinary about that. _No, there was something different_, my mind teased. _Very well, what was different?_ I took a large gulp of my pint.

"I do not think your mother would appreciate me bringing you home drunk," Holmes admonished as he finished his own glass of claret.

I childishly stuck my tongue out and took an even larger sip to Holmes' chagrin. Cloudiness started to fog my senses as the sounds in the pub began to sound muffled. The question of Emily's change in fashion returned to my thoughts. _What was different?_ Emily was known for wearing rather tight-fitting fashions that showcased the curves of her body. This time, however, she was wearing a dress that hung loosely over her stomach. _Oh, dear God..._

"_She's pregnant_?" I said a little too loudly.

Holmes briefly buried his head into his hands and then sardonically snapped, "You might as well have announced it to the entire pub, Charlotte."

"Firecrackers! I cannot imagine how the Ellises took the news." I held my glass to my lips and belatedly retorted, "Oh, please, Holmes, everyone hear is drunk or on the way to becoming drunk. I doubt they know or even care about what we are talking about." I was about to take a sip of my own glass when I found that my right hand was empty. My pint stood next to Holmes' empty glass. I made to reach for it, but he pulled it away from my reach. "Holmes!"

He leaned forward in his seat and the flurry of his words nearly caused me to keel over. "You have been visibly upset ever since we came across that insipid couple. I hardly think that you want to spend more time socializing with Emily nor do I think that you regret your parting with Keating. So, there must be something else that is bothering you. Now, I am being extremely charitable by giving you this choice: either I tell you what has upset you or you tell me. I believe the latter choice would be in your best interest."

I placed my hands on the back of my neck and I suddenly became fascinated by the way the gaslight was hitting the glasses. His mouth was starting to form the words of his analysis when I interrupted him.

"Remember how I told you that I would never get married?"

"Yes, I remember that clearly," he answered as he pulled out his cigarette case. A slim cigarette perched precariously from his lips. "May I?"

"Oh, go ahead," I reluctantly complied and proceeded to disclose what was on my mind. I heard the _snap_ of a match followed by the scent of tobacco. "My own lack of desire for marriage does not come from an honest distaste for the institution. Oh, no, I am not that courageous." I laughed and it came out sounding brittle and humorless. "No, I reject marriage because I know that it will reject me. Yet, there is still some part of me that secretly wants to marry that special person and have a bunch of children running all over the place. I won't have that, though, and I just have to accept it."

"What makes you think that you will never wed?" Holmes softly queried.

A morose smile crept onto my lips. "Come now, Holmes, who wants to settle for damaged goods?" Tears started to form in my eyes and I willed myself not to cry; I was already piteous enough confessing these confidences and I surely did not need this added to my list of sorrows. I reached for my pint once again and expected him to take it out of my reach; he did not. I took a hearty gulp and continued. "So, I became upset that Emily Ellis not only had the biggest diamond ring on her hand, but also that this vapid, shallow, and dense spoiled brat has found someone who loves her... or, at least, appears to love her. I felt as if I had been given a divine slap in the face. I know I am not perfect, but I do believe that I am a great deal better than Emily Ellis. Aren't I?"

"As unconventional as you are, Charlotte, you are a prime specimen of the feminine species."

"Thank you, Holmes. Wait, was that supposed to be a compliment?"

He did not give me an answer. A familiar introspective look rested on Holmes' face. He deeply sighed and ground out his cigarette in the ashtray. "Charlotte, I was going to wait to do this, but I think that, under the present circumstances, now may be the appropriate time to do so."

"To do what exactly?" I bemusedly questioned as I watch him fumble through the pockets of his grey coat. A handkerchief-wrapped object emerged from his coat pockets; it was the same article I had last seen at Mycroft's flat. It was the very thing that I had constantly bothered Holmes about the entire day. He placed it in the middle of the table and simply left it there. I was about to open it when I saw the look on his face. He appeared as though he was uneasy, almost as though he was in a situation in which he was not accustomed. Alarm bells started to ring in my head and I nervously asked, "Holmes, seriously, what is all this about?"

"Just open it," he demanded. Strangely, he did not look me in the eye as he said this, which further confirmed my qualms. Hesitation prevailed for only a moment before curiosity invaded and took over my senses. I unfolded the handkerchief and was greeted by a strange sight.

It was beautiful in its utter simplicity. A band of white gold glinted at me within the folds of the handkerchief. I picked it up to examine it closer and saw that it was decorated with a lovely pear shaped diamond. I admired it for a brief moment before I realized what a ring like this was supposed to mean. Now, I understood why he was acting out of character.

I naturally summoned up the most eloquent statement I could think of. "What the bloody hell is this?"

"An engagement ring."


	19. Words, Words, Words

I entered a brief state of catatonia in reaction to Holmes' utterance. After what seemed an eternity, I managed to swallow the last of my pint, stand up from my seat, and bolt out of the Bird and Baby. I understood that I had just been talking about the fact that I wanted marriage, but I certainly did not expect a proposal at that very moment. I also did not want to be asked for my hand when I was slightly inebriated and most in a public house. _Shame on Holmes_, I silently admonished.

My footsteps instinctively led me to Folly Bridge, where I sat on the bridge's railings with my head turned up to the stars. I was attempting to find the North Star when I heard the one voice that I dreaded.

"You left your cane behind in your haste," Holmes stated as he inspected it in his hands. "I attempted to anticipate what your reaction would be to this proposal. I certainly did not expect you to run away."

"First of all, it is a walking stick," I testily corrected as I stood up and snatched the object from his hands. "A cane is something that doddering old people use to walk, hit people in the shins, and brandish in the air if you happen to get too close to their begonias. May I please have my _walking stick _back? By the way, what exactly did you think I would do?"

A sly smile skewed his face. "Oh, I thought that you would overact, start yelling, and, mostly, cause a scene."

I swung my walking stick at him in partial annoyance and partial jocularity. He snatched it out of my hands as it came towards him with the ease of a London pickpocket. I charged forward and managed to grasp it in my right hand; his own grip was ironclad, though, and I could not wrench it out of his hand.

"Let go," I said through gritted teeth.

"No."

"Please let go!" I exclaimed as I pulled harder on the walking stick.

The sly smile appeared once more and I immediately knew that something terrible would occur. "Well, since you said 'please'…" He instantly let go of the walking stick, which caused a disastrous chain reaction on my part; I stumbled backwards and conveniently fell into a rather large puddle the very moment Holmes let go. I do believe that Holmes had not perceived that this particular argument would reach a soggy conclusion and his resulting delight proved my belief justified; he threw his head back and collapsed into laughter.

Sobriety started to seep back into my body as the puddle water started to seep into my boots. I crossed my arms against my chest to show my indignation but remained in the puddle out of foolish pride. Holmes wiped away a tear shed from his laughter and offered me his hand once he managed to breathe once again. Naturally, I refused.

"I am not going to take your hand," I huffed as I used my walking stick to stand on my own. "Whether it is in marriage or as a polite gesture, I will never ever accept your hand." I vainly attempted to tidy myself but I only succeeded in making myself appear more disheveled. I gave Holmes a clipped nod and bade him good day as I walked past him. A smooth yet callused hand from behind grasped my hand and gently prevented me from moving forward.

"I must say in my own defense that a shock like that is sometimes required to render a person sober again—"

"I wasn't drunk!" I exclaimed as I broke my own word and turned around to face him.

An arched eyebrow and a snort was his only response to my outburst. Perhaps he felt the sensitivity of the current subject and deftly switched to another topic. "I would like to compensate for my mistakes and invite you to my rooms. I do suggest that you accept it unless you would be willing to offer an explanation to your mother as to why you smell like a combination of a wet dog and alcohol."

The heavy weight of resignation outweighed my pride. "Very well, Holmes. Consider this a temporary armistice. You do know that I will get you back for what you did to me."

He heaved a theatrical sigh as he looped my arm through his. "Yes, I shall forevermore watch my back for your petty vengeance. Now, you never did give me your answer to my proposal, Charlotte."

"Patience is a virtue," I primly replied.

"And that is one virtue that you hardly practice," Holmes jested. "I would like an answer by the end of the day, if that is possible."

I shrugged in a noncommittal fashion. "Engagement is a weighty issue that should not be decided upon in the span of a few hours, yet I will try my best to come to a decision. You know how much I hate having things like this hanging over my head."

"If it weren't for the fact that you are of the feminine persuasion, you would have been an adequately decent diplomat. Ah, Mycroft could use a mind like yours in his... ah, services."

A smile curled my lips despite myself. "My father used to tell me that I could have given Disraeli a run for his money and that I actually had a slight advantage."

"And what exactly was that advantage?"

"That I am actually much prettier to look at than Disraeli ever was."

A barking laugh surfaced from Holmes. "Yes, I happen to agree with your father on that note."

* * *

Holmes kindly allowed me to wear his mouse-colored dressing gown after he instructed me to change in his room. The robe was so long that I had to pick the ends off the floor so that I would not trip. I properly examined the state of my clothing in the gaslight; the blouse had a couple of water spots while the entire skirt was drenched. _That will certainly take some time to dry, _I thought to myself. I neatly folded up my clothes and then examined the bedroom of Sherlock Holmes. 

The room was sparingly furnished with a bed and a fairly large armoire as the only major pieces of furniture. The bed looked positively pristine, almost as if nobody lied in it every night. Perhaps nobody ever lied in this bed; I had heard that Holmes was the kind of man who did not let the cycle of day and night affect his sleep.

A mere acquaintance of the man would not even know that this was Holmes' own private quarters. There was not a shred of sentimentality; there were neither framed pictures of family or friends nor an emblem of his alma mater. There were small signs, however, that Sherlock Holmes did indeed lived here; the entire room smelled of that particular brand of his cigarette tobacco, pages of violin music were scattered on top of his nightstand, and the place emanated the same pristine and catlike neatness of its resident.

_Holmes had borrowed some of my father's compositions_, a small voice in my head reminded me. _Perhaps you should look for them while you are in here._ I agreed with the voice and promptly opened one of the drawers to see if they were there. What I instead found was something I never expected: a Bible.

My hands ran over the leather cover and I instinctively knew that there was something significant about this Bible. Holmes was not a religious man by any means; hence, there had to be another reason that he kept this in his possession. I randomly opened the book to a certain section and found some enlightening information.

I opened it to the section between the Old and New Testaments and found an extensive depiction of the Holmes family tree. Sherlock's name was near the bottom of the tree alongside his brother Mycroft. Next to Sherlock, there was another name: Iris. I did not know that he had a sister and soon saw why he never mentioned that fact. Little Iris had passed away three months after her birth on the fourteenth of September. My eyes drifted up to the parents and saw that his father was one Siger Holmes and his mother was named Violet Chevalier.

I knew that his mother, Violet Chevalier Holmes, had passed away some time ago, but he had never shared any of the details with me. The family tree, however, provided me a clue as to the cause of her untimely death; the date of her death, which was written underneath her name, as the seventeenth of September of Iris' birth year.

"Charlotte, are you all right?" A voice called out from the other side of the bedroom door.

I quickly shoved the Bible back into the drawer and hoped no signs of guilt were evident on my face. After all, I had done nothing wrong… well, nothing criminal, at least. "Ah… yes, I'm fine. I am just examining the state of my clothes and estimating the amount that you will pay for the cleaning bill."

"I would have a lot of explaining to do if I bring your clothes to the launderette," Holmes reproved. There was, however, a note of amusement evident in his voice. "It is only puddle water, Charlotte, and a simple drying would suffice for the time being."

"Oh, very well," I reluctantly complied as I quickly checked the drawer for any obvious signs of snooping; the drawer looked as much as it had when I had opened it in my own eyes. I just hoped that it would look the same to Holmes. I headed out of the bedroom and into the sitting room.

I found Holmes stooped over his makeshift laboratory in the corner of the room. He greeted me with that usual sardonic smile and continued mixing the contents of a beaker over a Bunsen burner. The beaker's concoction soon revealed itself as the lovely smell of coffee wafted into my nostrils. He poured the newly made coffee into two chipped cups and handed one to me. I thanked him and was about to take a sip when an unsavory thought popped into my mind.

"Holmes, I do hope you cleaned that beaker before you used it for coffee. Lord knows, you may have quicksilver in it or something or other." I took a quick whiff of the coffee to ascertain whether any poisonous chemicals had infiltrated this seemingly innocent cup of coffee.

"I assure you that the beaker did not contain any dangerous chemicals that would make one ill or cause death," Holmes promised while he took a swig of the coffee as a sign of good faith; I took a tentative sip after I saw that he had not abruptly keeled over and died. He looked down at his cup and sighed. "If only I could make a decent cup of French coffee." He took another sip of coffee and then placed the cup on the lab table. "Besides, there would be no use killing what could be my fiancée after proposing marriage." He then added in a grim voice, "And if I did want to kill you, there are better ways than poisoning."

"You know, Holmes, you have the tendency to frighten me sometimes." I placed my wet clothing over the grate close to the fire. My body collapsed into the lumpy sofa across from the fire as my ears were greeted by a humorless chuckle.

"So I have been told by numerous people throughout the course of my life," Holmes replied as he swiveled his stool to face me. "Now, could you please tell me whether or not you accept my proposal?"

I chuckled as I deftly side-stepped his question. "So, you have always been like this?" I turned on my side and cradled my cheek in my hand.

"_This?_ What exactly do you mean by that question?" Holmes asked with a hint of offense in his tone.

"So gravely serious and grim, that is what I mean," I simply answered.

"People are like diamonds. They have many facets; some constantly shine while others shine at rare intervals of time. There may come a time when a rarely seen facet of mine actually shows itself."

I shifted my position to face the room's ceiling and stated in a would-be solemn voice, "Holmes, I swear there are many times I do think you are so terribly full of hot air. That hot air must go into your head and make it grow bigger and bigger and big—"

Holmes sliced through my current diatribe. "While I do admit that there may be some truth to your words, I feel you are grossly exaggerating—"

Of course, the stubborn streak in me continued to chatter on. I turned towards the window with my back facing Holmes. "—I mean the way you act. You act as though you're a curmudgeonly old man and not a twenty-three year old young man—"

"This is a pointless argument. Now, could you please tell me your answer to my proposal?" he commanded in a cross tone.

I met his order with an arched eyebrow and a smirk. "Make me."

He rolled his eyes as he shook his head in dismay. "Stop being so childish."

I stuck out my tongue at him and declared, "I am going to raid your pantry for sugar and crème for my coffee. I will talk to you when I feel like I'm actually talking to someone my own age." I started to walk away when something hit me in the middle of my shoulders. I turned around and saw one of the cushions from the sofa on the floor. My eyes slowly shifted toward the sofa where I saw Holmes leisurely reclined.

"You seriously just didn't—"

Holmes interrupted with a thoughtful explanation. "When a person is acting like a child, sometimes one has to act like a child to get their attention. Now, if you could please…"

It was a notable tactic to say the least, but it was the wrong one to use in this scenario. Small remnants of alcohol still circulated in my bloodstream; I was not able to seriously talk about that marriage proposal. Neither was I willing to talk about it, drunk or sober. I automatically picked up the pillow and threw it with all my might. Unfortunately, I had not taken Holmes' fencing skills into account and he swiftly dodged the cushiony missile and tossed another one at me. This time, it hit me squarely in the mouth.

"You are the one declaring that I am acting in an immature fashion tonight, yet, let us look at the facts, shall we? First, you make me fall into a puddle after engaging in a game of tug-of-war with my walking stick. Now, you are tossing sofa cushions at me. So, Holmes, tell me who is being the immature twit here?"

"The only twit I see in this room is standing right in front of me," Holmes smugly declared.

I picked up the pillow he had thrown at me. "Oh, you do know this means war, don't you?" And without any other word, I rushed at Holmes and started to fiercely swat it at him.

Unfortunately for me, he dodged most of the blows and managed to swipe the pillow out of my hands. I vainly tried to regain my weapon, but Holmes pushed me against the wall and propped his arms on either side of me to prevent me from escaping. Not a single word passed between us as we were both quite out of breath. My breathing had slowed to its natural rhythms when I suddenly realized how terribly close Holmes was to me; I could actually see my silvery reflection in his eyes. His breath warmly grazed against my neck with each exhale.

His head leaned to the left as his fingers gently grasped my chin. "You have a scar on your chin."

I attempted to ignore the feeling of his fingers on my face. "Scar? What scar? Oh, yes, that one." My mind, instead, turned its focus to the fact that his face was a mere inch away from mine. That certainly did not help me. "You see, James and I were skipping rocks and, and, he…well, he got a bit cross at me and threw a rock in my direction. The jagged edge of the stone hit me in the jaw and cut my chin and gave me the scar that you are currently inspecting."

"Did I honestly have to resort to this to get you an answer to my proposal, Charlotte?" Holmes abruptly switched subjects.

"You forget, Holmes. I have not given you an answer," I blithely replied with a self-satisfied smile.

He seemed to still for a moment before acknowledging my comment. He sighed and then said, "Well, Charlotte, perhaps there is a certain way to persuade you to answer…"

I had no idea what kind of persuasion Holmes was talking about. Then again, he still had me pressed against the wall even though we both knew that I was not going to launch another pillow offensive. Before I could figure out his method of persuasion, the door was barraged by a series of loud knocks. Both our heads snapped toward the door. We briefly looked at each other and then he walked to the door and slowly opened it, careful to keep his hand on the knob.

I could not see who the person was, but I heard his voice. "Are you Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yes, I am," Holmes replied. "And, pray tell, who might you be?"

The man ignored the question and proceeded to ask his own question in a ragged and oddly familiar voice. "The papers…"

Holmes' grip on the knob tightened while my chest did the same. "Exactly who are you and what concern do you have with those papers?"

However, Holmes did not receive his answer. A heavy _thud_ vibrated the floorboards, which only added to my own perplexed emotions as to what exactly was happening. Holmes pushed the door open wide as he quickly bent down to examine the mysterious visitor. He pried away the man's left hand away from his abdomen and slightly recoiled. I tentatively walked towards Holmes and saw what had caused his reaction; there was blood and it looked like there was quite a lot.

My hand involuntarily flew towards my mouth. Holmes turned towards me. "Charlotte, this man is injured. There are some bandages and disinfectant in the left nightstand in my bedroom. Please fetch them quickly."

I made to get them, but curiosity got the better of me and stopped me in my tracks. "Holmes, do you know who this man is?"

Holmes managed to pull the man from the doorway to the chaise by the fireplace with what seemed like preternatural strength. His eyes shifted from our visitor to me. "I believe that he may be your man from Folly Bridge."

* * *

Our strange visitor fit Holmes' earlier description. The man's size was most conspicuous; he would have towered over Holmes at a height of about six feet and seven inches. His hands resembled large, leathery mitts and I could see how easy it must have been for him to ensnare my withered left arm inside them. 

Holmes had found that the blood had come from a large, superficial wound in his side. "I think the blood can be attributed to another party," Holmes declared as he finished dressing the wound with bandages. "You see, Charlotte, there is too much blood for this kind of wound. The cause of his fainting can be attributed to something a bit more innocuous."

I was about to ask what that reason was when Holmes pressed a finger to his lips to signal silence. We quietly sat for a few seconds, but I did not hear anything more than haggard breathing. My confusion must have been evident because Holmes rolled his eyes and shook his head in dismay.

"Asthma, my dear child," Holmes stated. "He may have suffered an asthma attack, which may have rendered him lightheaded and caused him to faint."

Well, that was all fine and dandy, but there were more pressing issues on my mind. I nervously wrung my hands. "Why did he come here? What if his intentions are…malicious? I mean, the blood on his shirt, if it's not his… then _whose_ is it?"

"That is a question that we shall ask in due time. However, I assure you that he will do us no harm. This is the one absolute fact I know at the moment." I started to dispute such a claim, but Holmes' biting voice sailed above my protests. "He came here in a powerless position. He is injured and obviously malnourished. He is unable to exert his full energy on us in the unlikely event that he turns out to be a horrible character." Holmes walked to the front door and held it ajar. "There is only enough gauze for one redressing. I need to go and get more gauze and bandages, perhaps some hydrogen peroxide as well. I shall return momentarily." I protested when he started to close the door behind him.

"Are you mad? You are leaving me alone with this stranger? Holmes, what if something happens? What if he wakes up?"

"Behave as courteously as you can. If he turns out to possess malicious intentions, run out the door and inform the landlord downstairs to call the constable." Holmes quickly replied and closed the door before I could say another word.

The first thing I decided to do was to regulate my breathing. Hyperventilation was not a pleasing prospect at the moment. I then considered whether I should hide in Holmes' bedroom or stay in the room to keep watch on our visitor. Dying with courage seemed the better alternative to waiting to die in a corner and waiting to die; I, hence, stayed in the sitting room and sat in the farthest corner from the man.

Time seemed to stand still as I stood watch and waited for Holmes' return. I was sure that the mantle clock was wrong as it seemed longer than fifteen minutes since Holmes had deserted me. A low groan from the chaise caused me to jump almost a foot in the air. I recovered after a good minute and tentatively approached the man.

"Er… sir? Are you all right?" I asked.

The only response I received was an incomprehensible mumble. I had to walk a bit closer to be able to hear what he was trying to say.

"I'm sorry, I didn't catch what you were trying to say."

He lifted his large hands and went through the motions of trying to drink something. "Water," he said in a deep, rumbling voice.

"Oh, right, er, one moment, please." I fetched him a glass of water and he guzzled it down in one gulp. He held the glass out towards me when he had finished and I accepted it. His large brown eyes gazed at me as I took it.

"Thank you, ma'am," he said. His voice was rumbling and slow like a summer thunderstorm. My ears caught the nasal intonations that I had once heard in my father's voice. "I probably scared you, you know, me coming in and falling over the way I did." He paused as he shifted from his position; the slight movement caused him to wince. You look suspicious of me, ma'am, but I wanna let you know that I am not going to hurt you or your gentleman friend."

"How can I trust that?" The words tumbled out of my mouth before I could stop them.

An understanding smile appeared on his tan face. "You're smart, too. I don't know if I can make you trust me but maybe this'll help." He started to rummage through his trouser pockets, taking great care not to move around too much. He then pulled out his pocketbook, opened it up, and held it up for me to see its contents. A badge glinted in the gaslight and I read the engraved inscription: _Police Department_. His other hand was extended towards me.

"Patrolman Langston Westfield of the Boston Police Department at your service." He introduced himself. All of my fears seemed to soar out the window as I readily accepted his hand and shook it as vigorously as I could without injuring him. _A police officer! _Oh, this man was not going to murder me, skin me alive, or carry out any other macabre scenarios that had been running through my mind.

The door clicked open and Holmes appeared with a couple of packages in his hands. His eyes instantly spotted his awakened patient. "Ah, Patrolman Westfield, I see that you have regained your consciousness." The looks of confusion that Westfield and I both wore caused Holmes to add, "I saw your badge as I was looking for any means of identification while I was tending to your wounds." Holmes placed the packages on the small dining table and then pulled one of the dining chairs toward us. "Now, if you could kindly tell me—tell us, actually—how you received those wounds and perhaps your purpose here as well. I can hardly believe that it is police business that has brought you this far from Boston and if it were, I doubt a patrolman would be involved."

The condescension in Holmes' voice caused me to wince. Westfield may have been incapacitated due to his injury, but I still believed he could strangle Holmes with those gargantuan hands. Our guest attempted to sit up but found it painful and remained in his position.

"You are a sharp one, Mr. Holmes," Westfield declared with flat humor. "Those eyes of yours, you've probably known that I've been here for quite some time."

"I saw you in Professor Andrewes' lectures beginning early November," Holmes replied as he inspected his fingernails. "What is your relation to the late Thomas Andrewes? I am sure that his daughter," Holmes gestured towards me with his hands. "His daughter would like to know as well."

"I thought you were his daughter; ya got the same eyes and smile." Westfield then sighed as though some heavy weight were upon his shoulders. "The information that I got is something that you probably aren't going to want to hear, Miss Andrewes." He paused to look at me and saw that I was not going to shrink away from this information. "Well, you see, Thomas Andrewes is—well, was—wanted for murder."

There are a variety of words in the English lexicon that can incite extreme reactions and Westfield had just uttered one of them. I started to stand up to slap Westfield across the cheek for making such an accusation. Holmes, however, saw the smoldering anger in my eyes and the tightness of my hands and anticipated my move. Holmes seized my wrists in a tight grip the moment I stood from my seat.

"Charlotte, I implore you to stop. We must hear what the gentleman has to say."

"How can he say such a thing? My father was a saint and probably a better man than he is!" I hissed as I struggled against his vice-like grip.

Holmes then let go of my wrists and placed his hands on my face, cupping my cheeks into both of his hands as he gazed at me with those silvery eyes. "I understand that a statement such as that may sound like libel and slander to your ears but you must stay calm… please, Charlotte."

It is such a simple word, "please", yet when used properly it can move mountains. I briefly placed my hands on top of his and gave a quick nod. He dropped his hands from my face and together we resumed our seats. Holmes then continued as if nothing had occurred between us.

"Could you please elaborate on that statement, Patrolman Westfield?"

Westfield nodded, cleared his throat, and began to tell his tale.


	20. Missing Buttons

**_I'm so sorry for the vast amounts of time between chapters. Work and college constantly tear me away from Victorian England so please bear with me :)._**

* * *

"I'll let you know, Mr. Holmes, Miss Andrewes, that these are facts that I've put together through my own digging, so to speak." Westfield began. "I'm pretty sure that everything is correct.

"Elias Kiehn was one of Boston's most well-known citizens. A well-respected law professor at Harvard and known as a 'legal wizard' for his magic in the courtroom, so to speak." A raspy cough exploded from his chest and prevented him from continuing for some time. It was the kind of cough that made my own throat feel raw. "Excuse me if my story is interrupted by my coughs because—"

"Asthma, if I am correct," Holmes cleanly interrupted. Westfield lifted his head slightly to look up at Holmes in surprise. The prone man was struggling to form words when Holmes kindly and quickly provided him with the answer. "You have no fever and you seem to be in otherwise good health. The weather, though, has been quite ghastly, which can aggravate asthmatic symptoms. And then there is also the fact that you have fled from some sort of struggle, but we shall come to that later. Now, Patrolman Westfield, if you can please continue."

Westfield laid his head back down onto the pillows. "Asthma's been a problem of mine since I was a kid. Never grew out of it, like my mama said I would. Anyways," he let out a wheezy breath and went on with his story. "Like I said, Kiehn was one of the most respected people in the city but it does not mean that he was…well, he did not have many admirers, to say the least. He was a mean old man, to put it simply. He had the kind of temper that would make even the Devil himself quail with fear. His students did respect him for his wisdom but mostly they respected him out of fear for his scathing tongue and his ability to tear apart even the best argument.

"Kiehn did have his favorites. One of them was Thomas Andrewes," Westfield's dark eyes slid towards mine. "Your father, yes. Actually, Thomas Andrewes was probably _the _perfect pupil in his eyes. Bright, hard-working, headstrong, and probably the most important, he was not intimidated by Kiehn. It was said that the teacher and student often had their own debates within the lecture and would go on and on for a long time."

"That was a practice my own father allowed in his lectures," I softly mused to myself; it was more of a thought spoken aloud than an actual comment of any kind.

"Yes, I remember that as well." Holmes murmured as a soft smile creased his mouth.

"I hope you don't mind me saying, Miss Andrewes, but you've got your father's eyes and smile. He talked about you a lot," Westfield briefly added. I was about to inquire further into his claim but he was already continuing with his tale. "The student and teacher continued their mentorship long past Andrewes' time at Harvard. Of course, Kiehn took young Andrewes under his wing and shaped him into the beginnings of a great lawyer. They teamed up together on various cases until Kiehn felt that it was time to cut the strings loose, if you know what I mean."

Tendrils of smoke spiraled out of Holmes' mouth and nose reminiscent of a dragon. He ground out the cigarette in an overflowing ash tray before speaking, "That, I suppose, is where trouble began."

Westfield nodded. "The case that your father took up was one of the most talked about. A young man from one of Boston's first families had been found murdered in a dark alley with another man standing over him. It was a case that the jury would have made a quick decision. No thinking twice or anything. Thomas Andrewes had the hard task to speak for the defense."

"A formidable task, to say the least," Holmes concurred as he went towards the window. He gazed out at the greyness of Oxford before he continued, "And Elias Kiehn, when does he emerge in the picture?"

A sly smile curved Westfield's thick lips. "Andrewes put up a great fight. More than what the prosecution thought actually. They really underestimated the scrappy young man," I quietly chuckled at the apt description of my father as I took another sip of chamomile. "So the prosecution thought and thought of what they should do. They couldn't stand to have the murder of a Boston Brahmin left unpunished. Naturally."

Holmes' reflection in the window glanced towards me and I understood; we both noted the slight acidity Westfield's voice had taken in the last statements. Nevertheless, we both felt it wise to not interrupt the man and merely took note of this peculiarity. I continued to sip my tea while Holmes, much to my chagrin, pulled out another cigarette.

"That was when things became interesting." Westfield sardonically chuckled. "The old man versus the kid. The two men conducted their arguments pretty damn well. Oh, excuse my language, Miss Andrewes."

"As long as you tell your story, Patrolman Westfield, I shall hardly care what language you shall use." I quipped as I placed my teacup onto the coffee table.

"Miss Andrewes is hardly a conventional woman, to say the least, Westfield," Holmes replied as he closed the curtains and walked over to the fireplace. I shot him a sharp-eyed glance before he continued to say, "And may I add that my previous statement should be considered a compliment. To continue with the story, Patrolman, the case itself was taking an unconventional turn?"

Westfield nodded in agreement. "It really was. And…well…this is part of the story where things begin to get…messy. From what I have heard from people, the two men were known to behave professionally. They'd have the biggest arguments but would be able to have a drink with each other afterwards. But there was another thing about Elias Kiehn, he was a fierce competitor and always wanted to win. It was no different with this case, never mind that he was against his own student."

"So relations soured between Kiehn and my father?" I asked.

"From what I know, yes. It was said that Kiehn reacted in disgust just at the sound of your father's name. Now this comes from my own thinking so it might or might not be true but I don't think it was just Kiehn's competitive nature that tore the father-son relationship. I think it was more that Kiehn realized that he had taught Andrewes too well. He had finally met his match and it annoyed him so much that it was his own student. But that is just speculation.

"Then after all the arguments and closing statements were made, it was out of both men's hands. The jury deliberation went on for nearly the entire day, definitely a lot more than what was regular for a case like this. Finally, the jury emerged with their decision. The defendant was claimed not guilty and your father had won his first big case."

"And what exactly was Elias Kiehn's reaction to all this?" I inquired as I tightened the sash of Holmes' mouse-colored dressing gown. "I cannot imagine he would be too thrilled by his loss."

Westfield's asthmatic coughs seized his chest before he could answer my question. The ragged coughs finally dwindled down after some time and then cleared his throat. "I'm sorry," he apologized with a sheepish smile.

"There is no need to apologize for your health, Patrolman," Holmes answered as he put his index finger to his lips in thought. "What were Elias Kiehn's actions after the trial?"

"He wasn't really seen after the trial. He isolated himself to the family mansion on Beacon Hill and none saw him except for his son, Gerard." Westfield stated. "Here's where things start to become vague. Around a month after the trial, Gerard and his family went over to his Dad's home to celebrate the old man's birthday. They were in the middle of a quiet dinner when the butler said that young Mr. Andrewes wants to talk to his old mentor. Gerard just wanted his father to ignore it and continue with dinner, according to the butler, but Kiehn decided to see his old student. No one knew what they talked about but it soon turned into an argument and they could hear the two of them shouting. Gerard ran over to see what was going on but when he got there Andrewes was slamming the door shut and Kiehn was very affected by what happened.

"The next day he went out for a walk on his own but didn't come home. He was missing for a week and then…then his body was found beaten and bruised in the Charles River."

It was lucky that I had not had my teacup in my hands or else the china would lay shattered on the floor. A sour taste crept up the back of my throat as I involuntarily shuddered. Naturally, such a reaction did not escape Holmes' attentions.

"Charlotte…?"

"I am fine, Holmes," I stated through gritted teeth.

"I am sure you are," Holmes blithely answered. "However, I suggest that you do not hold onto your walking stick so tightly."

My cheeks flushed despite myself and I hastily loosened my grip on my walking stick. Holmes' grey eyes bore through me for a moment longer before returning to Westfield. "The prime suspect was, no doubt, Thomas Andrewes."

"The fingers all pointed towards him." Westfield agreed. "They thought that Andrewes was probably thinking that he no longer needed his former mentor. He had bested him and all, you see. And then there was the matter of Kiehn's will." Holmes looked at Westfield with a raised eyebrow and Westfield added, "Yes, his will had Thomas Andrewes as the main benefactor."

"And not his son?" I questioned as my mind was temporarily deviated from the memories of that terrible night. "That is strange."

"I find that very strange," Holmes agreed with a curt nod. "However, that is a fact that we will deal with later. Now, I can only imagine that this news was quite a shock to all of Boston."

"It was all anyone would talk about at that time." Westfield stated with a morose laugh in his deep voice. "I remember it well. Andrewes was arrested for suspicion of murder but managed to make bail. It was after he made bail that he disappeared into the night."

"Into Oxford, is more like it," I replied as I leaned back into the chair and stretched my limbs.

"As it turns out—" Westfield began but started to cough once more. This time it sounded much worse than usual. Holmes quickly went into the kitchen and returned with a glass of water. The injured man nodded his thanks as he was still overcome by the coughs and managed to drink some of the water. "I can't thank you enough, Mr. Holmes, for helping me out tonight."

"You shall repay your debt by revealing to me all you know about Professor Kiehn's murder." Westfield started to speak but the chime of the mantle clock interrupted him. The gilded arrows pointed at a quarter past seven. "It is later than I had thought. _Tempus fugit_…Charlotte, I know you wish to stay and listen but…you do know that it would be…improper for you to stay any further."

I understood the meaning of his words but could not help as my cheeks flushed scarlet. However, I could not help but notice that Holmes himself seemed to have the same sentiments; I had the feeling that he could not look me in the eye. I normally would have seized the opportunity to tease him about it yet I could not help but find it touching. I used my walking stick to help me stand and then said, "Well, gentlemen, if you would excuse me, I shall see whether my clothing has made any progress in drying."

I walked down the now familiar path to Holmes' bedroom. The fire crackled merrily in greeting as I walked into the room. My hands started to search for remaining signs of damp in the fabric; the shirt and stockings had sufficiently dried but the skirt was still wet at the part where I had become acquainted with the puddle. The skirt, however, could still be worn despite of the dampness. _I would rather risk a wet bottom than a sign of impropriety_, I mused as I closed the door behind me and proceeded to put on the clothes.

My fingers were about to button the last button of my blouse when a light knock fell on the door. "Are you decent, Charlotte?"

"It's all right, Holmes," I replied. "I'm dressed."

"Good," he declared as he opened the door. He walked over to his bed and sat down. He buried his face into his hands in exhaustion. "We have only managed to dig through the topsoil, so to speak. There is more there, Charlotte. I am willing to bet my life on it."

"Can we trust him, Holmes?"

He glanced up at me with those brooding eyes for a long moment. "My dear Charlotte," he began to say as he stood up to his full height. "What do you think?"

My jaw dropped in immediate response to his inquiry. It was such a simple query yet I could not believe that Sherlock Holmes was seriously asking for my opinion. My mind had begun to search for the motives behind it when he lightly pushed my jaw upwards to close my mouth.

"The look of slack-jawed bewilderment does not suit you at all. I understand that I am rarely one to seek another's opinion yet I am quite serious in my query. I would like you to know that I do hold your opinion in high regard. Pray tell, Charlotte, what is on your mind?"

I exhaled as I started to lean on my walking stick. "The man seems credible enough but it would be foolish to fully divulge the information we have about this whole affair."

"Yes, I have come to that conclusion as well. It seems for once that we have made an agreement. I will try and squeeze out any more information from Westfield tonight. I shall let you know about any further developments tomorrow as your mother kindly invited me to stay for dinner." He ran his hand through his dark hair and chuckled, "Ah, Charlotte, you missed the last button."

I glanced down and saw it was so. "Well, if you hadn't knocked on the door, I would not have missed it."

"Bah! Excuses, excuses," he muttered as his nimble fingers gingerly placed the button into its miniscule hole. "See now, what would you do without me?" He asked as we walked towards the door.

"I'd live in peace," I sardonically quipped. He let out a sharp bark of laughter in response while my lips quivered upwards.

* * *

We briefly made sure that Westfield was in amiable conditions before we left. Holmes locked the door behind him and walked down to the downstairs parlor.

"Firecrackers, it's raining," I groaned as I looked up at the pouring grey heavens. The weather had taken a turn for the worse during our time indoors and I was quite unprepared to walk home in such conditions. "I admire a walk in the rain on occasion, Holmes. However, in this instance, I would rather not."

"No, I wouldn't think so," Holmes replied as he peered through the curtains. "Especially after your tumble earlier today."

"I will have you know that my fall was entirely your fault," I retorted as I crossed my arms across my chest, ready for another duel.

He shook his head as he walked away from me with his hands behind his back. "Sir Isaac Newton's law of inertia states that with every action comes an equal and opposite reaction. Let us recall, my dear lady, your fall earlier today. You were swatting me with your walking stick—"

"I was not _swatting _you," I argued as I whirled away from the window to Holmes. "I merely swung it towards you. You seized it from my hands and refused to let go."

"An equal and opposite reaction, you see. You _swing _at me and I took your walking stick away to prevent you from doing any damage from said swinging. You were the one who was pulling with all your might, which caused you to fall into the puddle." He turned around to face me with an innocent expression on his visage. "I was only doing what you asked me to do."

A loud snort escaped from me following his explanation. "Oh, you very well knew what would happen if you had let go. It is quite ungentlemanly for you to place the blame on me, _my dear _Holmes."

"Don't snort, Charlotte," Holmes admonished as he walked towards the front desk and rang the bell. "It is quite unbecoming of a young lady. Ah, Mr. Carruthers," he greeted to the elderly man who had emerged from the rooms behind the front desk. "Good evening, sir."

"Ah, good evening, young Mr. Holmes, what can I do for you?" Mr. Carruthers inquired.

"Actually, it is not for me that your services are needed but this lovely young lady here," Holmes beckoned me over with his hand. He then placed his hands on my shoulders and introduced me. "Charlotte, this is Mr. William Carruthers, the lord of this wayward house for young scholars." The elderly man jovially laughed at the compliment. "Mr. Carruthers, I would like to introduce you to Miss Charlotte Andrewes."

"How do you do, Mr. Carruthers?" I greeted as I accepted his outstretched hand and shook it. He nodded as his twinkling eyes glanced between Holmes and me. A wheezy laugh tumbled from the man's bearded mouth.

"So, young Mr. Holmes, is this enchanting reason that has caused you to leave your rooms?" Mr. Carruthers lightheartedly teased as his bowed figure shook with laughter. "Miss Andrewes, do you happen to be related to the late Professor Thomas Andrewes?"

The room suddenly felt as though there were a harsh draft. My smile slightly faltered but I managed to hitch it back up for propriety's sake. "Yes, sir, he was my father."

Mr. Carruthers gravely nodded and deeply bowed his head. "My condolences, young miss. Your father was a good man and it was a pity that he had to go in such a manner."

"Mr. Carruthers, if you could please catch a cab for Miss Andrewes. I am sure that her mother would like her at home especially in these ghastly conditions." Holmes loudly cleared his throat as he gently placed his hands on both my shoulders. I could feel his bony fingers through the fabric of my coat; my eyes closed and the viselike feeling in my chest dissipated at their reassuring presence.

"Oh, of course, young sir." The elderly man fervently nodded while he fetched his scarf and coat. "I shall let you know when it has arrived."

"Thank you very much, Mr. Carruthers," Holmes gratefully replied. Mr. Carruthers nodded and went out into the rain.

The polite smile I had plastered on my face remained for a moment longer and then my face collapsed; my spine crumpled under the weight of my emotions and my hands flew up to my face to shield them from my view. His hands remained there for a moment longer until he tightly gripped and then released me. I drew a deep breath and slowly exhaled. He remained behind me, a column of silence. It seemed to last for an eon until he shattered the silence.

"Charlotte?"

I jerked my head up and loudly cleared my throat. I turned around to see Holmes with a look of concern across his features. "I apologize, Holmes. I am tired." I paused as I took another deep breath. "Yes…I am quite tired."

Whether or not Holmes understood the full meaning of my words, I was not sure. He was about to speak when Mr. Carruthers reentered the room.

"The cab has arrived," he announced.

"Very good, Mr. Carruthers. Thank you once again," Holmes answered with a slight bow. "I shall escort her out. However, I shall only trouble you briefly for an umbrella." Carruthers provided Holmes with said umbrella and Holmes provided his gratitude once again. "Now, sir, you may go back and resume whatever business you had before I interrupted you."

Mr. Carruthers tipped his hat towards Holmes and me and bade us both good night. Holmes held the door open as he opened the borrowed umbrella. He beckoned me forward and we walked out to the cab.

The cabbie tipped his hat. "G'evening, sir, ma'am, where you headed?"

Holmes opened the cab door and helped me in. Normally, I would have scorned him for such an action but the inclement weather made my footing unsure. He shut the door behind me, gazed at me for a moment longer, and then turned to the cabbie.

"Sandfield Road in Headington," Holmes demanded in his clear voice. He buried his hands into his pockets, fished inside them for a moment, and pulled out a few coins. "I shall give you a guinea, sir, to ensure she makes it home at a decent time." He handed the guinea to the cabbie's outstretched hand and added, "The lady will let me know if you have rightfully deserved that guinea."

"Of course, sir," the cabbie answered with a nod. He gave a cry to the horses and the cab was set into motion.

I watched Holmes' retreating figure through the window for a moment before I called the cab to stop. I poked my head outside the window and hoarsely yelled, "Holmes!"

His gaunt frame whirled around to face me and sprinted towards me. He arrived at my side. He asked out of breath and in exasperation, "Now whatever is the matter?"

"You wanted an answer and I am giving you one." I retorted to match his exasperation and mask my anxiety. I added in a barely audible voice, "Do you still have the ring on your person?"

Holmes was about to speak but quickly decided against it. Instead, he opened his coat and retrieved the ring from the pocket inside. I held out my left hand and he quickly understood. He gently laid the ring in my hand and my fingers closed upon it. We both looked at each other for quite some time and then gave each other the smallest of nods. Holmes retreated from the cab without a single word and walked back to his rooms.

"Sandfield Road in Headington, once again, sir," I ordered to the cabbie. The cab started on its way again. I unfolded my left hand and saw the ring glitter in the dim light. I gingerly lifted the trinket from my palm and placed the ring in its proper place.

* * *

"Perhaps Mr. Holmes should do the honor, James." Mum suggested as James took out the bottle of champagne from its chilled bucket. "That is, if Mr. Holmes does not mind."

"No, not at all," Holmes genially answered. He swept out of his chair and took the bottle from James. "Thank you, Doctor," he nodded to my brother. He saw Josephine as she returned from the kitchen. "Josephine, would you be so kind as to provide me with a saber."

"Of course, Mr. Holmes," Josephine answered with a small bow, briskly walked back into the kitchen, and returned with the saber in hand.

"Ah, thank you, my dear woman," Holmes replied as he took possession of the saber. He held it up in the light to inspect before he lay it down against the neck of the bottle. The blade swiftly slid up the neck and _pop!_ The cork flew through the air and into the empty hallway. Holmes grinned as we applauded. "Ha! Thank you, everyone, for indulging in my whims. It is something that I have always attempted."

"The art of sabrage, yes?" Geoff asked while Holmes started to pour the champagne into the flutes.

"Indeed," Holmes replied with a nod. He finally came around and filled my glass last. "It is a tradition dating back from after the French Revolution and saved for only for occasions of great ceremony."

I rose my glass to my fiancé. "And I do believe that the occasion certainly justifies it."

"Yes, let us drink to that," Mum declared as she lifted her own glass. "To Charlotte and Sherlock, the best of luck to them both!"

Cheers of "Hear! Hear!" were said amongst the clinking of crystal.

I was amazed at the speed in which my mother acted upon when she had discovered the news about my engagement. She had been waiting for my arrival the previous night and she had pounced upon me the moment I walked through the front door. The truth of the matter had been that Holmes had taken the liberty of asking for my hand earlier in the afternoon and had wholeheartedly agreed with the proposal. Night gave way to day and my mother was practically out the door just as the sun came out to send a telegram to James in London to tell him of the news and then, with Anne's aid, set about arranging a small yet fanciful dinner party.

"James, it seems you are the only one left as Charlotte is about to walk down the aisle." Anne noted as she placed her glass down.

"My dear _older_ sister," James began to say just as he finished his champagne in a single gulp. "I cannot help it if I am extremely fickle. After all, it is I who will be carrying on the Andrewes name, Mrs. Brautigan and the soon-to-be Mrs. Holmes."

Anne softly laughed at James ill-disguised annoyance. "I only made an observation, James. It did not mean anything at all."

The pleasant baritone of Geoff's voice entered the conversation. "'Did not mean anything?' That's utter nonsense, I must say. It is common knowledge that there is always an inherent meaning to what women say. Even in the most trivial of matters."

The two other men at the table voiced their agreements with Geoff's statement. James raised his glass and answered with a resounding, "Hear! Hear!"

I interrupted their celebrations with the clearing of my throat. "Gentlemen, I should let you note that you are currently in the minority and it would be wise to watch your words before drastic measures are taken against you." My comment brought laughter all around the table and I used the temporary distraction to lean in and whisper to Holmes. "We need to find a way to speak alone about what you have found out."

"Yes, I know," Holmes muttered as he leaned in towards my ear. "I am currently attempting to devise such an opportunity. Now, laugh and pretend that I have just uttered something charming." I raised my head back in laughter and inadvertently knocked my hand against the champagne flute. I quickly reached out to set it straight before it could spill over when Holmes' hand suddenly ensnared my wrist. He murmured, "Yes, Charlotte, you have unintentionally stumbled upon our solution." His eyes warily flicked around the table. "Spill your glass towards me. I shall signal you when to do so with the discreet pulling of your sleeve. Be sure to splash it on my clothes or else I shall be wet for no reason. And take care to make it look as though it were an accident."

His hand released my wrist just as Geoff had begun a spirited conversation about little Veronica's first words. "Oh, if you could just hear how she babbles. She's only a few months old and she is already quite the talker."

"You know, Anne was just like that when she was an infant." Mum sweetly reminisced. "I remember that there were even times when she would try to sing along with…" she paused and exhaled a deep sigh. "Thomas would sing to her and she would try to sing along…" Her shaky hand slowly went to her mouth in attempt to stop the tears.

"Oh, Mum," James stood up, took out his handkerchief, and walked over to Mum. "I know, I know," he said as he handed her the handkerchief.

Mum gently took it from his hands and put a hand on his shoulder. "Thank you, James. It's just been so hard…I miss him."

It was terrible seeing my mother in such a condition. It was quite unlike her to cry in front of others; she loathed people seeing her in a state of weakness, which was a quality I too had inherited. A tightening feeling in my throat started to make it hard for me to breath, which caused me to nearly miss the tugging sensation on my sleeve.

"Mum," I began to say while I stood from my seat. My left leg wavered as I stood; I lost my balance and, as I attempted to correct my equilibrium, my hands grabbed the table and caused my champagne flute to spill onto Holmes.

"Oh my," Anne cried out. "Charlotte, are you all right?"

I sighed; I immediately regretted using my disability for this situation. "I am quite all right, Anne. However, I think the condition of Mr. Holmes' shirt is less than all right. I am sorry, Mr. Holmes."

Holmes dabbed the spilled champagne with the napkin. "It was an accident, my dear. I was hoping that I could perhaps clean up and borrow an old shirt of your brother's."

"No, I should not mind," James agreed. "I still have some of my old clothing left in my old quarters. Charlotte, you can take him up to my rooms so that he may change, if it is fine with Mum."

"Yes, that is quite fine with me. I do not think Mr. Holmes would like to stay in that sodden clothing." Mum dabbed the handkerchief on her eyes and made a brave attempt at a smile.

"Thank you, Mrs. Andrewes, Dr. Andrewes," Holmes expressed his gratitude with a nod. "Charlotte, if you would please lead the way."

I stood up from the table; I was aware that everyone's eyes watched me as I stood from my seat. The concern for me was appreciated yet I could not prevent myself from gripping onto my walking stick a little tighter than I should have. I could almost hear an audible sigh of relief when I managed to stand without falling over. Holmes stood up from his seat and we proceeded to James's old rooms upstairs.

James's rooms had been left in the same conditions as though he still lived at home and had not moved to London three years ago. The bedclothes were still made, the medical textbooks still scattered upon his desk, and even his old cricket things lay scattered in the corner. However, there was not even a sign of dust in that room as thorough as Josephine's housekeeping was. Holmes walked towards James' desk, picked up one of the old textbooks, and opened it at a random spot.

"I must say, Holmes," I sat upon James's bed and sunk into the mattress. "I must applaud you for your timing."

"As an illusionist would, I chose the proper timing to execute the action when all eyes were distracted." Holmes snapped the book shut with a loud _thud_. "Yet perhaps you also commend me for stealing you away from such an emotionally vulnerable scene."

My eyes could not meet his as he would surely know the truth, if he already had not figured it out. Agitated, I stood up from my seat, walked to James's closet, and furiously rifled through some of the old shirts he had left behind.

"What color would you prefer?" I inquired in clipped tones.

"Any should suffice," Holmes answered. I glanced over my shoulder and saw that Holmes had sat down at the desk. "Consider this comeuppance for yesterday."

"I can hardly consider this comeuppance when you've merely been sprinkled with champagne. My tweed skirt was thoroughly drenched, I'll let you know." I playfully admonished and threw a decent looking white shirt towards him. "That should do. Now, quickly relate to me all you have gathered from Westfield."

"Firstly, I had asked Westfield if there were any other suspects asides from your father. Gerard Kiehn, the son, had been questioned but he was ruled out of the investigation since he had an alibi. He had been at home with his family on the night that his father had been murdered. His wife, children, and their servants all attested to those facts. Ultimately, your father had condemned himself when brought under questioning; he said that he did not know where he was or what he was doing the night of Elias Kiehn's murder."

"'He did not know?'" My brow wrinkled in confusion at the strange words.

"Yes, I agree, it is quite odd," Holmes assented as he started to unbutton the top buttons of his sodden shirt. "Charlotte, if you would kindly avert your eyes—"

"I do not to be told so, Holmes," I hotly retorted; my cheeks turned scarlet against my will as I quickly turned my back on him. I could hear the rustling of fabric from behind me. "Would you just please continue with what you have found out before everyone downstairs starts to wonder what is taking so long?"

"Of course," Holmes said with a hint of laughter in his voice. "Yes, from what Westfield told me, he could not figure out where he was or what he had been doing that night. The police could not figure out if your father was lying or speaking the honest truth. Either way, it caused your father to be considered the prime suspect in Kiehn's murder. It was only a matter of time until Kiehn's will emerged, which only served to cement your father's status as he was the murdered man's primary beneficiary."

"Holmes, I still cannot wrap my mind around that fact," I rubbed my hand against my brow. "Though I may be heavily biased, it is impossible for me to believe that my father could not remember a single night."

"Yes, I too find it odd that a history professor fails to remember his actions for one night," an ironic smile flickered across his features before he continued. "Or is it that he remembers but would rather risk his life than reveal what he was doing that night? No, no, no…" His voice trailed off while his hand made a sweeping motion as if to sweep away his inadvertent thoughts. "I am building upon a shaky foundation if I start to theorize without the facts. No, that would not do at all." He pounded his fist on the desk. "There is simply not enough information.

"According to Westfield, there were no witnesses to the murder. The autopsy showed that Kiehn had been brutally beaten but he had drowned to death in the river," he paused and added in a low voice, "Very similar to the manner in which your father was killed. Do forgive me for bringing that to your attentions." I slowly turned my head towards him at the unlikely show of consideration. He seemed not to know the significance of his last statements; he merely buttoned the last of the buttons on the shirt and continued, "On another note, I managed to uncover the reason behind Westfield's apparent bitterness; he was the man whom your father represented in his murder trial.

"It would explain Westfield's presence here in England. It is highly unlikely that the Boston police would exert a tremendous effort to track down your father. And if they were to do so, they would not send out a mere patrolman or a man of his…pedigree, so to speak."

"Exactly what do you mean by 'pedigree', Holmes?"

"He is a mulatto, Charlotte. A blend of two races, white and negro," Holmes walked over to the mirror to inspect his appearance. "He was quite correct in his assumptions; a man of his nature unfortunately would not be able to win himself a fair trial despite what it is said in the American constitution."

"Then why has Westfield come to England to seek out my father?"

"To repay him for defending him when no one else would, my dear lady. From what little I now know, I believe that Westfield unwillingly brought about your father's demise. Westfield revealed to me that his reason for coming to England was that he had discovered something more about Kiehn's murder. One night, he had arrested a man for public drunkenness and was taking him to the station when the man started to speak about Elias Kiehn's murder and how he thought he had seen it. Westfield thought that the man had been lying but slowly he came to believe him as the man started to tell certain facts about the murder that had not been revealed in public.

"The drunk told him that he had been walking around one night when he saw a four-wheeler stopped by the river. Two men emerged from the carriage, followed by a third man carrying another man. One of the men took hold of the man's feet and they dumped the body into the river. The three men watched for a few moments before they went back into the four-wheeler and left.

"Two of the men were described as wearing decent clothing, clothing fit for a gentleman. The third seemed to be dressed in equestrian attire, which he found quite odd. That was all the drunkard could remember. With that information, Westfield was determined to find your father and approached your father's younger brother, Benjamin. It took some convincing to persuade him to reveal your father's whereabouts, but he managed to gain your uncle's trust. Westfield initially sent a letter to your father but he received no response."

"A letter?" I could hear the audible click of puzzle pieces interlocking with one another in my mind. "My father received a letter from Boston in the previous year but I saw him burn it. That was probably Westfield's letter."

Holmes' eyes danced as he clapped his hands in satisfaction. "It is highly likely that it was indeed the good patrolman's letter. Your father was probably wary of receiving a letter from Boston to someone he did not know, which would explain why he burned the letter. Now, since he did not receive a response from your father, Westfield decided to come to Oxford and tell your father himself."

"Holmes, someone must have found out that Westfield had discovered more about Kiehn's murder." I said as I took Holmes' sodden shirt and hung it to dry.

"Yes, yet that is where things start to stray from fact and approach pure conjecture. I am afraid we have fished out all of our little ponds of information here. Now, I think we should return downstairs. Any longer and it may seem suspicious."

He started to walk away when my eyes caught something amiss. A smile crinkled my features and a giggle bubbled from my throat. "Oh Holmes,"

"What is it?"

I walked over to him and shook my head. "Terribly careless of you, you know. You forgot to button the last button." I reached out, threaded the button through the hole, and smoothed out his collar. "Now what would you do without me?"

"I would be less knowledgeable of the mercurial tempers of the fairer sex." Holmes replied with a hint of amusement in his clear voice.

We walked down the stairs in silence where it seems that everyone had vacated the dining room and had retreated to the parlor. The sounds of the cello sailed into our ears as we walked in. Geoff sat in the middle of the parlor with his cello straddled upon him while he played. Holmes and I quietly took a seat next to each other and watched with the others.

After awhile, I leaned into Holmes and whispered, "How did Westfield get his injuries? Did he say?"

"He was walking along when he was attacked by a grey haired man. I must add that he fits the very description of the man who had watched Mycroft's rooms during our stay in London. The man had every intention to kill him, as he stated, but he somehow managed to prevent him from doing so. He had found a fallen branch on the ground and swung it against the side of his head. His attacker crumpled to the ground and Westfield fled the scene not knowing whether he was dead or still alive. His injuries were sustained from a knife the attacker had used against him."

I nodded and returned to listening to Geoff's rendition of a solo taken from Tchaikovsky's _Variations on a Rococo_. A smile settled on my features as well as a sense of tranquility that I felt had been lost for a good sense of time. I managed to glance towards Holmes from time to time and saw that his ordinarily ramrod straight posture was gone; his shoulders seemed to melt into the fabric of the chair. His eyes were closed while his right hand tapped up and down like a piston on the arm of his chair. It was perhaps the most peaceful, the most at ease I had seen him.

Geoff finished his piece with an elaborate glissando of notes. A small round of applause followed and it was during this round of applause that a hand gently clasped my hand and Holmes' breath warmed my neck as he whispered to me,

"Do you have the address to Benjamin Andrewes' residence?"


End file.
